


Addiction

by Lanyakea



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Fights, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kidnapping, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Protective Tony Stark, Sickfic, Sort Of, Team as Family, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25058224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lanyakea/pseuds/Lanyakea
Summary: Blinded by his desire to make the Avengers, and especially Mr. Stark, proud of him, Peter decides to keep a serious injury secret at the end of a mission. The pain is worth enduring as long as he can maintain his dignity and have a role in the team. Until he can’t stand it anymore.Peter finds himself trapped in an endless cycle where he has to juggle with his desperate need for morphine and excruciating pain which gradually gnaws away at all that is good in him. Before having had the time to realize the extent of his mistakes, the young superhero witnesses his world entring and closing irretrievably on the need for these precious drugs.In the process of going down to hell, Peter forgets who he is, who his true friends are, and what it looks like to have a family. Thus, Tony Stark makes himself responsible to get his protégé out of this nightmare, whether he wants his help or not._Or: Peter gets addicted to the morphine substances after getting hurt during a mission in Sweden which went wrong. Tony tries to help him through this ordeal.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 56
Kudos: 176





	1. Young Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys,  
> Here I am, wanting to share with you this idea I got a few weeks ago. First of all, I advise you to read carefully the tags, this work will be pretty dark, with a lot of angst content – so I did warn you. Don’t like, don’t stay, it is this simple ;) Though I’m still gonna listed some warnings for this fiction, just for being sure you didn’t miss anything. 
> 
> Warnings :  
> -Description of fights and violences  
> -Insults  
> -Drug effects content and descriptions  
> -Sickness, withdrawal  
> -Accidental murder  
> -No compliant canon 
> 
> The story takes place after Homecoming, it’s also a divergent canon from Civil War, which means that the Avengers are still a united team (isn’t it beautiful?). Bruce Banner is still on Earth, not being filmed for Ragnarok, and Spider-Man isn’t an official avenger since he turned down Mr. Stark’s proposition in Homecoming, although he helps for S.H.I.E.L.D. missions. 
> 
> If you’re still there after the warnings, then enjoy! 
> 
> A big thanks to my beta reader, alifetime (yeah, english isn't my mother tongue, I'm a basic french people ;p )
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel’s character, or movies, and I don’t write this for money.

"Mr. Stark, I see the trucks! Should I stop them?!"   
  
Excitation and adrenaline pulsed inside the boy's veins as he energetically shifted on the branch which he was sticking on, hiding within the green leaves, to keep his eyes on the three vehicles in motion.   
  
A voice grunted in his ear, though he was still widely smiling under his mask, " _No, you know the plan, kid! Stay hidden, and remember you're only in for an emergency, matter of life and death, and last resort backup!_ "

"Oh, come on! I'm ready to do more, now!"   
  
" _Only the avengers take part, it's the rule, Baby-Spider."_ Clint's voice scoffed.  
  
Peter didn't fight the urge to roll his eyes, already pouting as he felt the familiar feeling of injustice crawl in his head. He grumbled between his teeth, "Yeah, yeah, whatever, old man..."   
  
" _Your mic is still active, kid..._ " warned Sam, laughing.   
  
"Oh, shi-...!"   
  
_"Wait until you get home, brat."_ Hawkeye slyly pursued, " _We'll see if you still talk back when I hang you by the feet with your webs!_ "   
  
" _Nah-ah! No one is allowed to threaten the kid except me! Kid, you're grounded._ " Iron Man added over Sam and Clint's jokes.   
  
He let out a shocked gasp, "WHAT?!"   
  
" _Ah! Justice!_ "   
  
" _Clint, let Peter alone,_ " Natasha eventually scolded.   
  
He turned off his mic and let a long and desperate whine come out of his mouth. Where was the point to argue back, anyways? It was already lost for him, and Peter knew that. However, he couldn't understand, no matter how hard he tried.   
  
Without thinking about it, he inhaled deeply in a clumsy attempt to appear stronger and taller with his bulged torso; he quickly gave up the idea when his nose canal got frozen with the cold air. After a handful of minutes, the teenager began getting annoyed by the silence and the lack of action. Slowly but surely, he was getting cold – and, as usual, he hated this feeling.   
  
The Avengers were on a mission to Sweden in order to put an end to the traffic of weapons provided with alien technology. After the Vulture incident, the government took the decision to revise the conditions of the Sokovia Accords downwards and give the team the green light to intervene freely. Too many dangerous weapons were circulating into the wild, and too many crimes and many victims unpunished were deplored.   
  
Peter remembered being scared when he saw all the Avengers in one same room for the first time since Germany. He also remembered Mr. Stark, who had been silent for many days after this unexpected reunion, although a glint in his eyes had seemed to reappear from nowhere, mysteriously brought back to life. For a while, maybe several weeks, Peter hadn't trusted anyone. Not a single word. Not a single smile. Not a single look. He hadn't wanted to admit that what he had experienced during what the media called 'Civil War' wasn't just a question of the good and the bad side, of which he had been, of course, the good with Mr. Stark. It would have been to admit to himself that he had fought for lies, and this thought had made him sick. It was to see his mentor take the first steps towards Steve who had convinced Peter to make a concession in his turn. All he desired when he went to the compound on weekends was to be able to take refuge in the workshops and labs with Mr. Stark, and nothing else. It suited him. But, little by little, a step towards the other avengers had led to a second step, then a third, and today he was fighting Mario with Sam and Clint to know who would have the last waffle.   
  
New work colleagues — friends — it wasn't all bad, according to Mr. Stark's words. It was good to have a team to count on.   
  
Then came the first missions. Never had Peter been so excited in his whole life. Of course, he was not an Avenger, he had refused this title. However, nothing prevented him from giving a hand to his justice partners, right? His joy was quickly surpassed by disappointment when Mr. Stark assigned him to the simple post of the observer from the compound. These were his missions: watch others living in action for him, take notes, and make detailed reports about what he had learnt and retained to his mentor, sometimes to Steve or Natasha. It was useless and annoying, maybe even humiliating. James Barnes was in the same situation as him, though the man wasn't obliged to play schoolchildren like Peter, who was constantly watched by F.R.I.D.A.Y.  
  
This new life was... a roller coaster. Sometimes he had more fun saving cats from trees as Spider-Man, and yet for nothing in the world he would have wanted to put an end to this everyday life at the compound.   
  
Everyone was nice. They all had their own lives, their own secrets and their character, and that's what gave this building so much life. It was no longer just a place to train to become stronger and where he could spend time with Mr. Stark in the lab: against all odds, it had become a second home.   
  
A month and a half earlier, Spider-Man was given permission to accompany the Avengers in their interventions. Again, a false joy still awaited him. If Thaddeus Ross had lost his authority in the Avengers' decisions, Peter, on the other hand, could not escape their restrictions and orders. So he was condemned to observe, learn, and occasionally suggest. If the idea was pertinent, Peter knew that it brought him a little closer each time to the day he could be a true partner within the team; if the idea was wrong, then he had a free ticket for a remark and an annoyed sigh from his mentor. Everything was double or quit. Always. And the rule of thumb was merely not to disobey - one day he tried nevertheless, entering a building where a group of criminals was hiding when he was ordered to stay outside to watch who was coming in and out. He remembered screaming like a girl when an Iron Man autopilot suit appeared out of nowhere to force him back to the compound. The scolding he got by Mr. Stark still haunted Peter's mind, sometimes. He hadn't disobeyed orders since, even though it wasn't the desire that was missing.   
  
Peter sighed in frustration, crossing his arms as he watched the three trucks drive away on the road. His muscles were shaking and dying to step in, jump forward and do a great job. He knew he could do it. Hell, even Clint would finally shut his wide trap after such a feat. Peter mused about it dreamily: neutralizing the last three vehicles filled to the brim with murderous technology. Risky, heroic, and effective.   
  
Unfortunately, he was only a pawn, like all the other times. An emergency reinforcement, as Captain and Mr. Stark, liked to reassure him, when Peter sometimes felt demoralized at not being able to do more. Because he had to learn...   
  
Like all the children.   
  
Bullshit. It wasn’t fair. He was sixteen, he was no longer a baby. Vulture's affair was his business. Peter frowned. Was it appropriate to feel possessive with a mission? Hell...   
  
The team was moving through the forest, following the trucks according to the plan.   
  
For the moment, everything was going according to plan and the traffickers suspected nothing. Their goal was to reach an old warehouse, not far from an airport, where they could choose which weapon to leave and which weapon to take with them for a one-way trip to Spain. It was the information that S.H.I.E.L.D. had recovered a few days earlier. And the purpose of the Avengers was to prevent this escape.   
  
The warehouse had already been secured and emptied from any weapon. Security back there was very unexpectedly poor, however, it had been frequent to encounter traps which were mostly explosive all around the building. The road was also strewn with traps and landmines, to dissuade and prevent unwanted guests - like them - from entering this territory. Pretty smart from Toomes. The man was very cunning and always had a head start on potential rivals and traitors. But not on the Avengers, Peter thought with pride.   
  
Toomes' business persisted without him at the helm because he was intelligent and respected. But even the best plans in the world had a flaw.   
  
There was only one way to reach the warehouse: passing a long, narrow, winding road that situated on an eminent mountain.   
  
This road had on the right side the mountain's flank, and on its left a precipice, which made it just wide enough to allow a vehicle at a time to pass. When the team gathered in the meeting room before starting the mission, Steve explained that the energy detectors from the Chitauris' weapons did not find any activity at this passage. For Sam, two explanations for this: the first being the difficulties and risks involved in setting up the traps. It would have been suicide, especially since the mountain road alone was critical. The second reason would have been to save and spare their material. Why arm a trap that is already deadly enough for those who dare to venture into it?   
  
Peter visualized on a loop the plan over and over in his mind — he just had this to do, anyway, and that was the best way to find brilliant suggestions to his team.   
  
Natasha exposed the idea of forcing traffickers to a halt by sandwiching them on the road; a part of the team in front of the trucks, and the other part behind to prevent them from running away. Impossible to turn around, which imposed only two remaining solutions: surrender or fight. The plan was mostly based on the criminals’ redemption. A fight in this place with such technological power could only end badly or lead to suicide, after all.   
  
"How's the baby spider doing?" drawled a lazy voice.   
  
Peter blinked his thoughts away and looked down, his lenses narrowing as he finally spotted Bucky who was standing down there, besides the trunk, dozens of meters away under him.   
  
"Hey man!"   
  
His young voice echoed briefly. Bucky could speak without screaming since Peter had enhanced ears, though it wasn't vice versa.   
  
"It's not too cold here for you?"   
  
In a second's fraction, Peter stopped shaking like a leaf. "No! I'm fine!"   
  
Bucky rolled his blue eyes, leaning his back against the wide tree. "Relax, Spider-Baby, ‘not here to coddle you..." He scratched his nose. "What a godforsaken damn place..."   
  
"Language!" Peter exclaimed with what could have been Steve's voice imitation.   
  
He cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks warming up as the ex-Hydra agent threw a dismayed glance at him. But, as small as it was, there was still a tiny smile which was rising from the man’s mouth's corners. Peter took it as a triumph and smiled back even though no one could see it under his mask.   
  
After a few seconds, his shoulders slouched and he sighed, watching carefully the road until the forest swallowed it away from his sight. Everything was so calm. Here and there, small snow heaps were partially littering the ground. The mountain was proudly standing in front of him, its white top hiding with grey haze — and they all were over there, just a few miles away from Bucky and Peter's location. Probably getting in position, ready to nail their mission without them.   
  
"Cheer up, I didn't get invited with them either," Bucky grunted, checking his gun probably for the hundredth time.   
  
"This is not fair..." Peter complained.   
  
"Yes, it is."   
  
Spider-Man huffed, more and more frustrated.   
  
"Listen," Bucky looked up again, searching for the younger's gaze. "You need to learn, and if you think you don't, then you truly need it. And me, I'm a potential dangerous cold-blood murderer." He raised both of his hands. "See? Easy. We both need supervision."   
  
"I'm not a baby..."   
  
He sounded like one just by saying that, and he knew it.   
  
"Of course you are." A short chuckle interrupted the ex-soldier. "Don't be in such a hurry to get older, Peter. People forgive you when you mess up because that's what babies do: they fuck up, all the time. But when you're an adult..."   
  
Bucky let the end of his sentence in suspense, though Peter refused to meditate about it.   
  
The cold wind could be heard as it sneaked between the leaves and made them rustle slightly. Peter inhaled deeply and enjoyed the refreshing nature around him, taking a pause to notice how different everything here was from New York. But, thanks to Mr. Stark, he had a heating system in his suit. So, he wasn't going to die of hypothermia, perched like a baby monkey on the branch of a tree, waiting and hoping like a damn Disney Princess that his colleagues would finally understand that he had great potential.   
  
Could he sound more desperate, even if he wanted to?   
  
"Bucky!" Peter suddenly gasped while his spider-sense alarmed up. "Look! They're fighting!"   
  
The man turned towards the mountain with a serious face. Smoke was rising over there, quickly accompanied with numerous shot sounds. Peter jumped from his spot and landed right beside the ex-soldier. When he started walking towards the mountain without any hesitation, Bucky put a firm hand on his shoulder.   
  
"Stay there, Spider-Man. You already have orders."   
  
"They may need u—" He whines with a weak struggle.   
  
Bucky glared at Peter with stern blue eyes, "Don't make them regret bringing you here, Peter." His hold briefly tightened. "Stay. There."   
  
A very simple order, and yet it was the worst thing that could be asked to Peter currently. This mission was no joke, he knew it. The presence of the Vulture in his nightmares constantly reminded him that it was not only a question of making a series of groovy stunts to impress the crowd but a question of life and death. Each of these weapons was dangerous. Lethal. Peter wrapped his arms around himself as a chill went up to his spine; he could feel familiar vibes in the air. Bad vibes, those that freeze the blood. It was undoubtedly this energy which came from Chitauris technology. It was close. And all of his friends were confronting it.   
  
He was about to give up any hope when a miracle suddenly happened.   
  
" _Spider-Man,_ " Steve called out, his breath short. " _We need you here._ "   
  
At first too surprised to move or even speak, Peter had the strange impression that the ground was collapsing at his feet. As if he had been abruptly disconnected from reality, although he could still hear Mr. Stark's weak protests through their communications. Had he heard correctly? Did Captain America just ask him to join the mission? He opened his mouth to say something, anything, that could help him express his shock when he was vigorously nudged forward.   
  
"Go! Go! Go! What are you waiting for, c'mon Spider-Man!" Bucky shouted, still shoving him.   
  
"Y-yeah, yeah, I'm..." Peter started to walk towards the mountain, hands shaking. He glanced at Bucky over his shoulder, and when he saw the encouraging blue eyes he nodded and breathed deeply. He was ready. Confidence warmed up his whole body and adrenaline started to diffuse again in his system as he brought his fingers to his ear to activate the mic. "I'm coming!"   
  
Mr. Stark's reluctance could have two origins: either the Avengers didn't need Peter and therefore Mr. Stark preferred that he stay behind to fulfill his role as superhero schoolboy, or they really needed him and Mr. Stark hated having to admit it. The billionaire hated anything that could hurt Peter, the teen was aware. That is why he would _not_ disappoint him. Soon, Iron Man will be more proud than ever to have Spider-Man as a partner.   
  
The closer he got to the team, the less Peter could ignore the stress crawling in every cell of his body, fighting with his courage and excitement. He could feel this oppressive and eerie aura even in his bones.   
  
_Focus, Peter..._  
  
If Bucky hadn't come with him, it was because it always must be someone who had a perspective on the situation to cover the backs of the others in the event of any problem. Peter had learned that during the unwanted training sessions that the Avengers forced him to follow. He had to admit that it was not fundamentally useless and that he had learned things. Lots of things. On combat techniques, strategies, studies of opponent's behaviors. Thus, Peter remembered some of these rules to distract his mind as he inexorably approached the mountain — where each shot was now perfectly distinct. Peter swallowed back his fear, continuing to swing from tree to tree until finally seeing Falcon flying a hundred meters away, dodging something. Now he could see the road. The team. The three trucks. And this familiar and terrifying purple and blue energy that emanated from all sides of the improvised battlefield.   
  
It would seem that the traffickers chose to open fire rather than surrender. It was understandable — as a general rule, it was never a good sign when you were arrested by the Avengers.   
  
When people are afraid, they often make stupid decisions over reason, such as fleeing. It doesn't matter if it's totally hopeless and futile: it's always better than admitting that everything is over. Peter respected those feelings. However, there would be no exception today. He was going to arrest those criminals, each of them.   
  
"Here I am!" Peter boasted in a supplely landing on the old asphalt of the dilapidated road.   
  
Just as he had supposed, the traffickers went all in by going on the offensive. The two avengers who could fly (Mr. Stark and Falcon) were subjected to all kinds of shots and attack and had only rare opportunities to retaliate. As for Steve, Natasha and Clint, their priority was to keep the three trucks in place and prevent them from moving anywhere. Though, the vehicle at the back attempted to reverse, followed by the other two, which remained as close from each other as possible.   
  
" _Okay, паук малыш,_ " Natasha said, and Peter knew she was talking to him because he recognized the words she used to say when they were together, even if he had never known what those meant. " _Captain and I are busy with the runaways. Mind the ones to your side_."   
  
"On it!" he responded without hesitation, happy to help his teammates.   
  
Peter heard Iron Man's repulsors above him, "You printed that in the little head of yours, underoos?!" Mr. Stark inquired in a hurry, darting around him and shooting a blast to a guy who was climbing on a truck with a shotgun.   
  
"Received loud and clear, Mr. Stark!" Hell, he was too elated to even think about messing up.   
  
He watched Iron Man fly back into the battle with awe when he realized that two criminals were running towards him.   
  
"It's our escape route, man! Come on, it's just Spider-Man!" One of them furiously grumbled to the other one, taking out a knife from his pocket.   
  
"Eh, yeah... God's with us, buddy! Bump the bug off, and let's scarper!"   
  
A wave of humiliation and indignation engulfed Peter and suddenly made him irritated. It was usual for the teen to feel minimised in comparison to the other Avengers, but it was still deeply frustrating. Damn, these two criminals were relieved to see him rather than any other avenger! He couldn't just take it with a smile, but it wasn't the best moment to feel up-in-arms either. Regardless of this, he found a quip to throw at them, "Spiders aren't bugs! Thank, myself, Professor Spider-Man, for the zoology lesson improvised!"   
  
An angry cry came from the man with the knife as he charged into the young vigilante, his dagger held up forwards first. Peter merely stepped aside and slightly raised his left foot to trip the criminal — he didn't even use his spider abilities for this, the man's attentions were just too obvious and predictable. He ended the fight by hitting his opponent's back head with his elbow. The criminal gasped shortly and fell with a loud thump right on the road. _So easy_. He looked up before leaning his masked head on the side when he sighted the second man, whimpering on the floor a few meters away and holding his bloody calf. An arrow was through it. _Ouch_.   
  
"Look who finally showed up! It's the itsy bitsy spider!" Clint scoffed, heading to his sides with a notched arrow at his bow. "You're here to apologize, I imagine."   
  
"For what? To have said that you are an old man? Sorry, but, the truth comes from the kid's mouth, it is known," he slyly retorted.   
  
Clint had a playful smile, but his eyes were sharp and scrupulous and spying every single thing possible around them.   
  
"Yeah, yeah... I'll give you as good as I got, squirt."   
  
A shadow quickly flew over them, "You may want a cup of tea, while you're having your break time?" Sam rebuked when powerful and heavy energy repulsed him away from the mountain.   
  
Though Falcon recovered fast, already starting to fly around again, Peter couldn't detach his eyes from the huge void right next to the road.   
  
Detailed information had been given about this road during the meeting preceding the mission, yet, between picturing and seeing for real, there was a difference. The road wasn't wider than five meters, and as expected, on the right was the side of the mountain which constituted an impressive uphill slope, leading to the summit, merged in the dark clouds. However, this immensity was nothing compared to this vertiginous void at the left. If the view was beautiful, the hairs that stood on the back of Peter's neck made him understand that he would not appreciate the fall. The Washington Monument was officially a joke next to that. By focusing and narrowing his eyes, the teenager could make out the top of thousands of pines that ran alongside the mountain’s foot. He then noticed that the slope, here, was dangerously steep except for a few pointed crags and plateaus. By instinct, Peter gave a wide berth between him and the edge, already hating the danger that came from this chasm.   
  
"Uh, Karen?"   
  
" _Yes, Peter?_ " His A.I. immediately answered, sounding jovial.   
  
"How tall is this mountain? We're so high..."   
  
_"Do you want me to give you the exact altitude of your location, or only an estimate?"_  
  
He swallowed dryly, "Mmh... the estimation?"   
  
" _Peter, you're currently at three thousand two hundred meters above sea level. Congratulations on your new record! I advise you to take it slow, the pressure level might affect your ventilation pace."_

Oh, that was why his breath was so short. Peter nodded for himself — it was pretty logical.   
  
"Okay kid, we gotta calm down those clowns." Clint prompted as he aimed his arrow to the truck at the back; its doors were closed, although Peter could see three men inside thanks to their thermal signature. "Damn, what a bunch of tenacious cockroaches," mused the archer. "Tony and Sam can't approach them. Look at their fucking cheater weapons..."   
  
Indeed, most of their weapons were powered by Chitauri energy core, which conferred them a powerful advantage. Getting closer, for now, was too dangerous, so it was a patience war. The first team which would do the wrong step would lose.   
  
Peter's eyes followed the three trucks, which remained motionless, though full of life. The one at the head of the row was only half visible since the Avengers intercepted the fugitives at a turn, thus the side of the mountain hid what was happening over there, where Steve and Natasha were. Peter imagined with amusement for a brief moment the surprise it must have been for the traffickers when they suddenly found themselves face to face with the most powerful people on Earth, in the middle of a road located thousands of meters away from the ground. How did they come to choose the fight? They put them all in danger, so not the best choice if their aim was to live.   
  
"I gotta cover their flying ass. Do not come near the big weapons, those that spit magic purple energy..."   
  
"Yeah, I know..." All memories from the Homecoming night were still fresh in his mind. "But what should I do then?"   
  
Clint smiled as he cautiously sneaked toward the trucks — men were coming out, screaming and armed, from the one in the middle. "Do spider things. Catch midges, or mosquitos. Yum!"   
  
Maybe he shouldn't have called the man 'old', after all. Peter huffed. One sure thing, he couldn't just wait here, playing with his thumbs. They needed him here.   
  
In all, Peter could count at least three shooters with Chitauri heavy weapons, probably one for each vehicle. The good thing was that they had to be outside and exposed to shoot the Avengers. The negative thing was that these weapons sent shock waves too powerful to give Falcon or Iron Man a chance to approach enough. Clint was an asset if he could successfully neutralize them, however, the second problem was all the other traffickers hiding in the vehicles, with other potential unknown gadgets. Peter was aware that his team couldn't just shoot the gunmen, not when such a source of energy was their shield. It would be like using a match just over a pool of gas.   
  
The vigilante tried to quickly draw up and put together a plan in his nervous mind; a plan capable of giving a new twist to the situation and sorting out the problem.   
  
"Karen, please activate thermal vision!"   
  
" _Of course, Peter._ "   
  
Okay, so there were a good handful of men who were still in the trucks. Some of them had come out and were protecting heavy weapon bearers with simple guns. But it was enough to repel Clint or Sam.   
  
Usually, he wouldn't give a second thought about diving into the action headfirst, but the height parameter was still racking a corner of his brain. Honestly, he didn't want to die, let alone here. Plus, he had to impress Mr. Stark first.   
  
It didn't need more reflection to shot a web and play Tarzan right after a deep breath.   
  
_Ugh, don't look down, don't look down..._  
  
Too late.   
  
Peter shook his head to dispel his brief vertigo and focused on his goal. Dancing in the middle of shots and bullets, he could do it. It was a piece of cake. None of the men managed to touch him, or even brush past him as he swang, following the road turn. He briefly spotted Captain America and Black Widow in front of the first truck, fighting against a man who was using plasma shots from a cannon he was holding over his shoulder.   
  
"Ah-Ah!" Tony's voice objected. "The sky is too small for the three of us, underoos. Scoot off!"   
  
_Eh, watch me._ "Trust me, I'm super prudent, Mr. Stark! Excessively prudent!" Then the boy narrowly dodged a bullet, which ricocheted in a _clang_ on the billionaire's iron suit. "See?! You're distracting me — I don't have iron and bulletproo—"  
  
"Alright, alright! You're still grounded, by the way."   
  
Peter whined audibly. Though his attention was soon enough required by other things, like a half dozens of guns aimed at him. He swallowed thickly but didn't give up. Eventually, his Spider-Man habits bore fruits; he got to web up two men against the rock flank which towered above the right side of the road.   
  
"Good job, kid!" He heard Falcon praise as Iron-Man could finally knock out one shooter. Peter shot a web at the weapon and pulled it until it was to his reach, so he could put it away further on the road.   
  
Each small victory fed Peter's confidence exponentially. He remembered all the times when Natasha had warned him about this feeling of power which tended to blind humans. He hardly took it into account. Even if his movements and fights options were constrained, Peter felt so alive. Invincible. This fight was one of the best things that happened to him.   
  
"Fucking hell, guys, help shoot down this damn bug, he doesn't even have any armor!" roared one of the men who just came out from the last truck.   
  
"I'm Spider-Man!" he interjected the other wisecracks.   
  
"Okay, Spider-Man..." The same man laughed darkly, lifting an automatic gun. "Or future colander."   
  
_Uh_ …   
  
For the minute that followed this brief interaction, Peter saw his sixth sense as a rubber ring in the middle of an ocean. Heavy weapons protected simple guns, and simple guns protected heavy weapons. It was time to change strategy.   
  
Arching his body in a way that allowed him to swing towards the side of the mountain, the teenager landed on the rock about ten meters above the road. He stood for a short time, perpendicularly at the ground and stuck only by his feet, and he scanned the combat area. This break was short-lived, unfortunately. As soon as the traffickers spotted him above them, the gunshots aimed once again in his direction, riddling the walls with bullets. Peter grimaced as he felt shards of granite dig into his legs, and when he inadvertently breathed in the rock dust. What made him most anxious, though, was to feel a new sensation buzzing under his feet.   
  
His lenses widened, hit by realization, while his spider-sense suddenly warned him. "Above you, look out!" Spider-Man alerted.   
  
_Not mines, huh._  
  
Explosions sprang without any warning and chained with deafening and hot detonations. There were no flames or toxic gases, only blue and purple puffs which whirled savagely just before disappearing to make way for a deluge of rocks which gradually parted from the mountain.   
  
" _Everybody!_ " Steve yelled through his mic. " _Cover, now!_ "   
  
All hostilities temporarily ended with a common ceasefire, while the two teams used their respective strengths to survive the stone avalanche.   
  
"Holy..." Peter whispered when he witnessed the fact that some of the falling rocks were as big as cars and heading down either towards the road or right into the void.   
  
Despite the fear and stun, he caught sight of Iron Man, still flying a few meters away. "Underoos, stay where you at! You don't move _unless_ it's necessary, you hear me?!"   
  
Absentmindedly, Peter nodded and focused on this one task: sticking. He could do that. His hands and feet were against the side of the mountain; the few small pebbles and gravel that fell on him were nothing compared to those blocks which could crush him like... an insect. He shuddered at the thought, chasing away this horrible image from his head.   
  
From his spot, he was lucky to have a good view of all the events around him. It was also good and comforting to know that his friends were safe; Steve took refuge with Natasha under his shield, Sam had joined Clint to protect him with his wings, and Mr. Stark tore into pieces as many rocks as possible thanks to his blasts. The purpose of this mission was to capture the criminals, not kill them or leave them dead, although they did quite well-using energy shields that deployed around the trucks as an impermeable force field. _Why hadn't they use it earlier?_ Peter groaned in pain when a stone with the size of his fist hit his forehead. Difficult to trust his spider-sense when everything around him was screaming danger.   
  
" _Er_ ," Clint mumbled with a clenched jaw, even though a smile could be guessed on his face. " _Where is Wanda when we need her? 'Not the time for a honeymoon..._ "   
  
When the tremors finally ceased, it was a sigh of relief in unison.   
  
The next second, the shield around the vehicles faded and all attacks started again from everywhere, more vehement and powerful than during the first round.   
  
Everyone wanted it to end. Peter used webs compacted in balls to knock out some imprudent men. His little game was though interrupted by a strong gust of compressed air which dug a deep crevasse in the rock, just where he stood at, a second before jumping out of way. "Hey, not cool man!" The concerned guy opened his mouth to retort, but he fell stiff the next instant when he received a blast in the chest from Iron Man.   
  
_Ouch_. He could smell the burned flesh from where he was. It could have bothered him if the situation had not been so critical. But, minute by minute, the Avengers were taking over the situation. Shooters became fewer, and soon, only a heavy weapon remained in sight.   
  
_"Watch out for the hidden goons. I'm detecting something new,"_ Mr. Stark said, suddenly serious.   
  
"Who's the fucking moron who activated our shield?!" a man complained.   
  
"It was raining stones!"   
  
The man waved the argument away. "I don't give a fuck, the shield is a damn power-sucker... Hell, guys, finish them for once and for all!"   
  
Peter meditated on his lessons in enemy behaviour and wondered if those criminals really had other tricks up their sleeves or if they became desperate. In both cases, Peter knew it wouldn't be enough to take over his team; they were winning—they were the winners.   
  
A new wave of traffickers came out of the trucks to lend a hand — one of them, a tall, burly man of muscle and fat, clambered onto the roof of the middle truck. Unlike other criminals, he seemed amused by the situation, as if he were only a child in a playground. A child with a big toy. Peter rolled his eyes, noticing that this man also had a heavy weapon, which he had to press over his shoulder to support it. Perhaps he would have been advised to wait and understand correctly what it was before getting started with a fight, but an adrenaline stir and excessive excitement drove him to take the risk.   
  
"Don't, kid!" Clint cried out, still struggling with a few angry shooters. "Come back here!"   
  
Hawkeye's dissuasion attempts didn't work.   
  
When he jumped down, Spider-Man didn't have a concrete idea of what he would do. The plan was basically to tackle the fat guy and then maybe knock him out, or web him. His gaze crossed the criminal’s. Then, he saw an ugly rotten-teeth grin in the middle of the greasy ginger beard which immediately woke up his sixth sense.   
  
"Yeah, come on, come see daddy..."   
  
It was the last thing he heard before being frozen in the half-way of his fall. Literally.   
  
"Huh...?"   
  
A flash of that night in the bank, the first time the teen had met this odd technology, popped inside of his head. It was the same strange feeling. The same fear, the same helplessness, and the same vulnerability.   
  
The same stupid mistake.   
  
"Yes! Squash the bug, Barney!" cheered several men.   
  
Donut guy — Peter wanted to call him — began to laugh. Right then, the young vigilante understood that everything with this man was ugly. "Naughty spider..."   
  
At first panic-stricken, Peter responded to a primal survival instinct and tried to fight against this eerie aura that paralyzed him in the air. But it was barely as if he could move his limbs or turn his head to find any help. His spider-sense perked up and Peter felt himself paler under his mask. He needed to breathe.   
  
Then the nightmare began.   
  
Pain exploded through him when his whole body was thrown against the rock walls of the mountainside; the shock and fear, fortunately, did not leave him time to feel humiliated for looking like a fly smashed against a wall. He felt the air being expelled from his lungs as his body collided with unbelievable strength against the façade. But above all, despite his buzzing eardrums, Peter could hear the dreadful guttural giggles of the man playing with him. A cruel laugh that made him want to vomit. The teenager let out a pathetic moan while he was recovering from this violent collision when he was suddenly dragged away from the mountain before he even had a chance to catch his breath, still lifted through the air by Donut guy who was using this technology on him. Weakly, he tried to stick with his shaking hands on the rock but he was already too far from it.   
  
Peter struggled again when he became aware that he was now just above the void. If this man wanted to kill him, then he would drop him and that would be the end.   
  
This is what would have happened if the intention of this monster had not been to play with him in the first place. Peter finally found enough oxygen to scream when he once again hit with full force the rock — all the ribs on his right side cracked in chorus under the impact. Then, again, he has moved away from the mountain and, again, thrown against it with the same cruelty. Peter felt unconsciousness manifested by all these repeated blows to his head. If he didn't do anything, he would be killed. Since when had this been an option? It had never crossed his mind during a mission before, so what went wrong this time? What had he missed? The last flow of energy and rebellious spirit urged him to protect himself when he felt himself once again dragged by the hold of this weapon — Peter positioned his legs forward him, in a desperate attempt to absorb the shock of the collision rather than to be crushed whole.   
  
_Crack!_  
  
Something broke in his left thigh. The pain was so excruciating and unbearable that no sound of distress could come out of his mouth, although it was wide open. His eyes widened and Peter became as rigid as a statue, unable to fully realize the horrible pain that had just been triggered in his leg.   
  
His resistance was perhaps what had frustrated the so-called Barney, or perhaps the man was simply tired of this torture, since the next moment he was released from this grip, just after being thrown into the precipice.   
  
"PETER!" Someone shouted as the teenager was free falling.   
  
Peter was still conscious. Awake. Nevertheless, he did not move. His body was a kind of disjointed puppet. It was awful.   
  
He wanted to move and yell as he saw the road disappear so far above him, but none of his muscles responded to his requests. The young vigilante saw his flaccid limbs move widely due to the wind, while his body continued to flip and turn over, again and again along his fall, giving him the privilege of seeing death calling for him down there. He was terrified.   
  
" _Peter_ " Karen seemed anxious and worried. " _You're parachute is damaged! I can't activate it! Use your webs!"_   
  
Uncle Ben did parachute jumps when he was younger, Peter still remembered the incredible videos he had shown him. It had looked so awesome and exciting. Humans fell at about 200 km/h in ten seconds, Ben had told him. It was fascinating, truly.   
  
Fascinating and scary.   
  
Just when he succumbed to the call of fatigue and closed his eyes, Peter collided into something and two strong arms wrapped around his waist. 

  
_"Got him!"_ A male voice announced, dragging definitely the teen from sleepness.   
  
Suddenly his body was like brought back to life; Peter gasped loudly to inhale as much air as possible between several violent spasms, revelling in the obedience of his four limbs. His body was producing enough adrenaline to give him the illusion that everything was fine, thus he was no longer minding about his injuries or pain, but only of the relief of being alive.   
  
Eventually, he looked up, willing to figure out who was holding him. He saw two mechanical wings. His heart stopped for a second.   
  
" _NO!_ "   
  
Vulture. It was him!   
  
"No, No! Please let me go!" He began to squirm against the man tight grasp. "Go away!"   
  
His lungs couldn't follow his irregular breathing, he knew he was about to have a panic attack. Until this voice rang in his ears again, sounding familiar and comforting. "C'mon, Baby-Spider, it's alright! It's me, Sam!"   
  
"Sam?!" Peter breathed shortly, his lenses widening and narrowing constantly on the man's face.   
  
"Yeah! Good job, pal! You forgot your parachute?"   
  
The teenager took a look around them; they were flying upwards where the road was. What a quite fall, he mused. Did he just fall on one thousand kilometres? "Er... long story..." He mumbled as he hid his face against Sam's chest — right now, he didn't want to see what was under them.   
  
Falcon chuckled slightly. "Yeah, how do you call it, again? Ah, yes... Parker's luck."   
  
He grunted because it was an ugly truth.   
  
When Peter had hoped to go on a mission with the Avengers, he hadn't imagined this.   
  
He messed it up.   
  
His team had finally given him a chance to prove himself, yet, he found a way to do it the wrong. No one had been injured except _him_.   
  
Despite the anger and disappointment he had for himself, Peter hastened to get back on his feet once Falcon landed on the road. His jaw clenched automatically from the first step he made when a stinging pain crossed his thigh. He stopped dead but didn't have time to inquire further about his injury since Iron-Man appeared right next to him.   
  
"Pete..." Mr. Stark sighed with an urge, his helmet retracting. "You alright!? How many fingers do you see?"   
  
The man lifted his forefinger.   
  
"Uh... Let me count..."   
  
Tensions abruptly rose.   
  
"I'm kidding." He laughed nervously as the team was assembling. "One."   
  
Mr. Stark's shoulders slouched heavily as he sighed once again. His face seemed older than usual, marked with worry. Peter flinched when someone gently slapped the back of his head by behind — he wheeled around and met Natasha's smile.   
  
"Welcome back, паук малыш."   
  
None of them looked upset against all odds. Everything was so calm compared to a few minutes earlier. No explosions or shooting sounds anymore. Peter cast a quick glance to the trucks and found nothing more than three vehicles immobile with a lot of unconscious men on the ground. They won. The Avengers won.   
  
Not him.   
  
"Are you hurt?" Mr. Stark reiterated, his hazel eyes hardly leaving his protégé.   
  
First, he wanted to lie. But then an inner, wise voice made him remember that it was a pretty bad idea. He promised to never hide his state again; it was the unique condition that allowed the teen to not have Karen reporting daily everything to his mentor. A truth system.   
  
Grudgingly, Peter confessed. "The usual, I think... Bruises, not so much luck on the ribs... maybe a sprain." He could see that the billionaire was sick of not being able to just ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. to scan him from head to toe. If Peter didn't suffer so much now because of the adrenaline level which was falling, he could have laughed. "I'll be fine, though. Just a little bit tired…"   
  
Ironically, Peter was only yearning to leave this damn mountain and return to the Compound. He was tired and sick of this mission. The longer he stayed here, the more he faced his uselessness. Moreover, the altitude still made breathing difficult — Peter heard every short, intermittent breath from his friends, in addition to his, which prompted him to instinctively remove his mask, so he could breathe more easily.   
  
"You look like shit," Sam stated blankly when he saw his face.   
  
Although he did not have a mirror to get a glimpse of his poor state, the vigilante imagined that it was not pretty to see. The stone which had fallen on him during the avalanche had partially cut his forehead, and the right side of his face was on fire because of the repeated blows. Peter still felt ghost shocks against his body. This man hadn't missed his job.   
  
"Where is Donut guy?"   
  
Natasha frowned, her hand on the teen's shoulder to ease him. "Who?"   
  
"Uh..." He cleared his throat, feeling uncomfortable to talk more than necessary about this man. "The one who has the weapon which could lift things ... Hm, the one who tried to ki—"   
  
"We took care of this, underoos." Mr. Stark firmly cut him.   
  
He tried to protest, though Natasha spoke first. "Donut guy isn't a problem anymore, Peter. S.H.I.E.L.D. is up to it now."   
  
"Oh... okay..."   
  
His mind was too confused anyway to seek the how and the why about the end of the battle. The Avengers had won, that was the main thing.   
  
Adrian Toomes was officially the loser.   
  
It was over.   
  
He listened absently Mr. Stark cursed about a useless parachute when his gaze caught Captain America and Hawkeye approaching their trio. Clint's left arm was stained with fresh blood. "What happened?!" Peter asked once the two avengers were near enough to hear him.   
  
"Eh, seems the karma hit you, squirt. See? Respect your elders, next time."   
  
He was avoiding the question.   
  
"You're hurt."   
  
"Ooh, so that's why my arm is itching."   
  
Hawkeye hissed in pain when Steve suddenly tightened a piece of tissue wrapped around his wound. The bleeding stopped, but it didn't quell Peter's concern. Finally, Steve brought him the answer with a cautious smile, despite Clint's threatening glare. "He'll be fine, kid. He was shot while trying to protect you when your Donut guy used his weapon on you."   
  
"Shit..." Guilt twisted his gut merciless before he could fully understand those words. "Fuck, I'm so sorry..." 

An exaggerated, outraged gasp came from the archer. "Hey, watch your damn language! Who the fuck raised this brat?"   
  
Hell, he knew Clint was only joking to reassure him — because he was a kid — but he didn't want to act as if nothing was going on. It shouldn’t be normal to get hurt. Peter hadn't the smallest ounce of desire to smile or laugh at this. Not when it was his fault.   
  
Peter had felt so wretched when he understood that he had been the only one to have lost feathers during the first minutes of his first real mission with his friends. He immediately and legitimately worried about his credibility — what would they think of him now? Spider-Man had failed to prove himself. He was not good enough for the level of the Avengers.   
  
Peter had thought it was the worst that could have happened to him until he realized that one of his teammates had been injured by _his_ fault.   
  
That was why he couldn't enjoy the same relief as the others.   
  
He slipped out of his thoughts when a heavy arm wrapped lazily over his shoulders. Mr. Stark shook him gently. "We're all alive — I think we deserve a pizza. How that sound?"   
  
"Good..." He mumbled without conviction, even if the idea of a pizza after such a horrible day was quite enticing.   
  
Chattering about the now-ended mission began and lasted several minutes, about how they were going to proceed before returning to New York. Peter spent these few minutes by replaying in his head what he had just experienced, hardly swallowing the fact that he almost died. It made the teenager sick.   
Sam eventually clapped his hands together to get general attention. "Okay, I'm staying here with Nat until S.H.I.E.L.D. arrives. Hopefully, they'll be on time, for once, and we won't end frozen in the middle of nowhere."   
  
Still shaken by recent events, Peter quickly detached himself again from the conversation. His mind registered that they were finally going back home, and that was all he needed to give him a reason to walk. When Mr. Stark noticed his slow pace as they made their way to the Quinjet hidden in the forest, several kilometres away, he asked him if he needed to be carried, which Peter of course had refused. He had been humiliated enough for the day. Even if the pain in the leg seems to increase from minute to minute, he concentrated with all of his being on it, thus he didn't show more weakness by limping — especially in front of his mentor.   
  
Back in the Quinjet, the first thing Peter did was sit in one of the passenger chairs in the centre of the aircraft. Or more accurately to slouch down on it with the grace of an old walrus, but he did not care about it, as long as he could finally give some rest to his legs. Around him, Avengers' hubbub was buzzing on and on as they were talking, making reports with radios, putting away their equipments, laughing. He distinctly heard Clint's protests every time someone tried to help him or check on the condition of his injury. He heard jokes of his team and everything else that gave the impression that everything was fine.   
  
Everything was fine, right? No one was dead. It was just a mistake, he would do better next time, that was it.   
  
"Pete?"   
  
Fingers brushed his back when the young vigilante opened his eyes with a start. "Hey, guess who it is?"   
  
Still, with a cloudy mind and a vision covered by a hazy of sleep, Peter recognized nevertheless the low voice of Mr. Stark who was standing next to him. The man no longer wore his Iron Man suit, and the other Avengers were playing cards on the table in the centre of the Quinjet.   
  
"Hey... did I-did I fall asleep?"   
  
He already knew the answer. His cheeks blushed slightly — damn, it was not the aspect of him he had wished gave to his friends. At best, he looked like a toddler who had missed his nap.   
  
"Yep. We're there soon, maybe ten minutes," Mr. Stark announced in a calm tone as Peter rubbed his eyes, now fully awake.   
  
So he had slept two hours. It was the time they had spent with the Quinjet to go from New York to Sweden. On the outward journey, the trip had seemed endless, as it always was on each mission. Now, he couldn't wait to be home just to hide in his room and lick his wounds. May always said that the mind was clearer after a good night of sleep, and Peter hoped he would feel better the next morning. At the moment he felt like shit.   
  
"Home sweet home," hummed Clint, already on his feet when the aircraft landed in the Compound's aeronautic garage, near to the hangar.   
As soon as the doors opened, the mission ended officially.   
  
Though, Peter was still sat at the table, his fingers crossed together in a tightly clenched fist. As much as he wanted to run out of the plane, he couldn't. Not now. And he couldn't talk about it to his friends either.   
  
Peter wasn't able to tell if he would manage to walk out.   
  
His leg hurt so much.   
  
After the fight, his body was just too anaesthetized and stunned to interpret his injures right. Like he had said to his mentor, it was usual. A habit. Peter always recovered from any situation and any wound, it was why he didn't take seriously his state, knowing that his powers would allow him to heal from whatever Donut guy had made to him. In the end, maybe he had been wrong.   
  
Peter closed his eyes and breathed slowly. His leg hurt less this way. However, it wasn't magic. The pain was there, sharp and deep, no matter what he tried to do or think about it.   
  
"Hey, Queens."   
  
He couldn't help smiling when he heard the soft voice he knew so well, despite the fact that he wanted to be alone. Though, when the teen looked up, his smile faded.   
  
_Uh-oh... not this gaze._  
  
Both kindness and guilt were glimmering inside of those two blue orbs. Peter usually felt so comfortable and accepted when he met Steve's eyes, but right now it only reminded him how wrong things went back there. It was Steve who had called Spider-Man to the battlefield, and Peter could tell that the avenger was currently blaming himself for what had happened. And the second thing worst than humiliation was pity. So, naturally, he grew upset.   
  
"I'm fine," he huffed with what should have been a frown, but which instead looked like a pout.   
  
Of course, Captain America wasn’t deterred at all by his behaviour — how expected. "Everything went so fast, I almost forget to congratulate you. It was impressive for a young recruit, you know."   
  
_He did nothing good. He messed up everything._  
  
"Maybe it doesn’t mean anything for you, but it's a good thing for us to have a young heart in the team. Tony was right about you."   
  
_He was only saying that because he felt guilt. He didn't mean it._  
  
Peter wiped his nose with the underside of his hand and nodded silently, feigning to accept solemnly the words.   
  
"I think Tony was deadly serious about the pizza, we'll be in the living area," Steve announced, grabbing a bag and his shield when he noticed the teen was still quietly sat at the table. "You alright?"   
  
Straightaway, he nodded hurriedly.   
  
"Y-Yeah, I'm... I'm coming. I just, um... I was just thinking, that's it."   
  
Mentioning his injuries was out of the question — they would heal soon enough, so there was no point in exposing his weakness so openly once again.   
  
Steve accepted his answer although it was obviously reluctant, and for the next second, Peter could feel the gaze of the man probing him intensely, probably looking for any clue that could have helped him to decipher the teen's unusual demeanour. Peter remained calm and serene until the avenger turned on his heels and finally left the Quinjet.   
  
As a precaution, Peter waited patiently several minutes. He counted two by two in his head until he reached a thousand before thinking in turn of leaving the plane since it was inevitable anyway. His body was screaming at him not to move, to remain quiet and inactive until the pain was gone, but Peter decided otherwise, convinced that he could overcome broken ribs and a sprain.   
  
First, Peter lay both of his hands flat on the table, fingers apart; he stared at them without blinking long enough to feel tears starting to tingle in his brown eyes. Then, he leaned on the table to hoist himself up, ignoring his clammy, trembling body.   
  
Something was wrong. Again, he ignored this warning and stepped forward with his injured leg.   
  
The pain blinded him from the moment he put his weight on his left foot; Peter didn't have time to catch hold on anything, thus he collapsed on the floor in a muffled cry, his two hands frantically clasping his thigh to try to ease his suffering.   
  
"Argh!" The vigilante squeaked, rolling on his back, a grimace of pain contracting the muscles and features of his young face.   
  
Maybe it was not _just_ a sprain.   
  
Peter's lips closed in a tight line as he struggled as best he could against a startling feeling of nausea. He remembered the sound his leg had made earlier, at the impact moment. And, deep down, Peter knew that this time he couldn't ignore it. Something had given way in his thigh.   
  
"You're alright, you're alright..." The boy whined to himself, holding back frustrated tears.   
  
The good thing was that he had been right to listen to his instincts and to wait for all the people in whom he had so much admiration and affection to leave this place before trying to get up. What a pitiful scene he managed to avoid thanks to his stubbornness. Peter knew that a part of his dignity would have definitively dissociated from him if the Avengers would have witnessed this moment more than embarrassing.   
  
The bad thing, though, was that he couldn't stay here forever, even if Peter was tempted to lie down and take the nap of his life.   
  
When he found the courage to move, the vigilante shifted until he was on all fours. Still awfully humiliating, but it gave him time to get up properly without putting too much pressure on the wrong leg. And although it had taken him eternity, Peter managed to get on his feet and head out of the Quinjet — not without looking like a snail, but it was better than nothing. This victory was satisfactory enough for the boy, which is why he hobbled to the first elevator he saw in order to realize his dream of short-term, which was to hide in his private room. Too bad for the pizza. 

  
  
  
**.**

  
  
  
Unfortunately, Peter was unable to escape the pain through a nap as he had done on the way back from the mission. To tell the truth, he couldn't even manage to fall asleep or even doze. The pain in his ribs, but especially the pain in his leg, was far too prickling for Peter to live with. He rolled, and shifted over and over again in his large bed, trying for long hours all sorts of improbable positions, in vain. Whatever he tried, he could not escape this suffering.   
  
This is how both mental and physical exhaustion led him to consider going to ask for help to relieve the pain for a while until his body could heal on its own. However, Peter had forbidden himself from going to see Mr. Stark. The man had already coddled him enough for the day. Peter knew it because F.R.I.D.A.Y. had asked him an hour earlier, and it was obvious that it had something to do with his absence along with the others during the pizza night. The boy was confident in his abilities to overcome this ordeal. The only thing he asked was to keep the dignity he had left and maybe some magic to reduce the pain, at least for the night.   
  
Determined to follow this resolution, Peter used his last strength to remove his Spider-Man suit and put on grey jogging bottoms and a simple white t-shirt. It would be enough to drag himself to Bruce's laboratory.   
  
Even though Doctor Banner had better predispositions for biochemistry, nuclear physics, and gamma radiation, Peter knew that the avenger also had medical knowledge that would spare him an annoying trip to the infirmary which would risk to let Mr. Stark know about his condition. As with the other avengers, Bruce and Peter were friends, and the teenager was counting on striking the man chord to get what he so desperately needed. Hopefully, he wouldn't even need to be examined. He didn't need it anyway.   
  
There was not much distance between the elevator and his room. Yet, it took him once again eternity to cross these few meters in the corridor. A few meters which seemed to him cruelly endless.   
  
His thigh was definitely the worst.   
  
The least painful option was still to hop on his healthy leg and put almost all of his weight on it. Peter had no choice; it was either that or end sprawled on the ground on the very first attempt to walk normally.   
  
Pushing away from the urge to curl up in the corner of the elevator until someone took pity on him and scraped his leftover-him, Peter walked inside the laboratory, keeping in mind that he couldn't allow himself to pass out in front of Bruce. Maybe he was closer to fainting than he had thought initially, he internally suspected when the man gave him a distrait, quick glance over his desk, glasses over the tip of his nose, followed by a new look more surprised and worried.   
  
"Oh my god, Peter, are you okay? You're so pale..."   
  
The Queens' vigilante rubbed his hand against his sweat beading face and managed to smile weakly at the doctor. "Hey, Mr. Banner... I'm sorry for disturbing you, but I was hoping you could give me painkillers or something..."   
  
Bruce forgot whatever he was working on and swiftly crossed the lab to get a better look at Iron Man's protégé. The man's frown and the pronounced lines on his forehead accentuated his concern, and Peter felt guilty for bothering one of his bigger models for something as stupid as cracked ribs and a sprain.   
  
"I'm fine..." Peter began with an unexpected low voice — he hoped it looked more like shyness than pain. "I'm, I... I got some scratches from the mission."   
  
"Oh, Peter..." Bruce grunted for himself as he saw bruises on the boy's right arm. Now, he seemed a little bit annoyed, to Peter discomfort. "How come you got involved in this? No, it wasn't safe... God, I'll talk to Tony about it. It's unacceptable, you could have been seriously hurt or—"   
  
"I'm fine!" He reiterated, this time louder and with more confidence. Peter was happy to be able to fake a healthy shape, even though it wasn't the case. "It was... very educative. I’m fine, truly."   
  
Bruce seemed to be in internal conflict as he paced in front of Peter which soon increased the queasy state of the teenager who had beforehand sat on one of the stools in the room. Then the scientist's shoulders slouched down at the same time he let out a weak sigh as a sign of abandonment.   
  
"Alright. At least, you came to me, it's a good thing." Bruce praised in a mumble as he searched inside one of the wall cupboards; he came back to the boy a minute later with a first aid kit and a small box of blue medicine in his hands. "I'll let Tony know about it."   
  
"What?! No, don't tell him! He would freak out, you know how he is!"   
  
His chances of playing a role in the next mission were already slim, and Peter didn't want to cut them down even more if that meant telling Mr. Stark about his visit to Dr. Banner.   
  
He bit on the inside of his cheek to suppress a groan of pain when the man rubbed cotton soaked with disinfectant on his forehead wound.   
  
"You should look at it this way: why do you think Tony didn't drag you straight in the hospital wing right after landing? Hm?"   
  
Bruce then mumbled a few medical remarks for himself as if he were writing it down on a notebook. Apparently, the injury on his forehead was only superficial and did not require stitches. Good news in itself, but it was the last of Peter's concerns since he had already forgotten about it.   
  
"What I'm trying to say, Peter, is that Tony trusts you enough to let you take care of yourself. And, believe me, he's doing harm to himself by it. You and I know he can be such a mother hen."   
  
A blush spread on the cheek of the vigilante who immediately lowered his head to hide it.   
  
"Look at yourself, it looks like the mountain fell on you..." Bruce noticed with an empathetic pout.   
  
_No shit._  
  
Once the wound was clean, Peter felt Bruce's hand palpated his ribs which immediately made him moan.   
  
"Sorry." The avenger pursued nevertheless the brief examination and therefore took a step away. "You have a thing for broken ribs, haven't you? I don't even count the number of times you have managed to hurt yourself, it's distressing." Despite this remark, he affectionately ruffled the teenager's hair. "If you hadn't come here, I'm sure Tony would have sent the infirmary to you in the morning."   
  
"Yeah... you're probably not wrong."   
  
So it was sort of a test to find out if Peter was responsible enough to go and get himself examined. Rather expected from the billionaire. Somehow, Peter was happy that his mentor trusted him enough to grant him more freedom. He didn't want to spoil it.   
  
"Peter."   
  
The teenager perked up to look the avenger in the eyes. His gaze was comforting. Was it a good idea to compare this feeling with what he felt when he hugged a soft toy? Anyway, he certainly wouldn't admit it to Bruce, not even under torture. "Yeah?"   
  
"Are you hurt somewhere else?"   
  
"Um..." Reflexively, he put his hand on his thigh and massaged it through his pants. "Nothing serious, my leg hurts a little."   
  
When the doctor initiated a forward movement Peter stiffened. "But nothing serious, it's just a cramp... I'm mostly there for the ribs, they prevent me from sleeping."   
  
Damn, why couldn't he help but lie? What if Bruce could see right through his game?   
  
The scientist relaxed slightly, however, Peter didn't miss his sceptical expression.   
  
"What about your head?"   
  
"My head?"   
  
_Migraine, flashes, numbness, memory problems, constant stress._  
  
He swallowed his saliva dryly when Bruce gently patted his curls. "I'm talking about the mission and how you're going through the aftermath. I know from experience that it's sometimes not easy... And I also know that it can contribute to insomnia. So, it's why I think you could and should take this."   
  
Peter followed the man's movements carefully as he opened the small blue box in order to take out a single capsule.   
  
"It's Steve's." Bruce declared with serious intonation. "It is a derivative of Morphine synthesized in our laboratories. Dangerous — even lethal — for a mere human, but effective for an enhanced being like Captain America or Spider-Man. Though, as your metabolisms are not the same, I would advise you to remain particularly vigilant with the effects of this painkiller. It should relieve you tonight while your body is healing but ask me if the pain persists and if you still need it tomorrow; they are powerful little things. "   
  
At the same time as he was introducing the medicine, Bruce had filled a glass of water that he was giving with the pill to the teenager who was patiently waiting, his open hand lifted in the air, palm upward.   
  
"They are not candy, though," joked the scientist, even if there was still traces of seriousness and caution. "Don't become too fond of it." 


	2. Foretaste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A great thanks to my beta reader, alifetime!
> 
> Enjoy!

The capsule was miraculous. 

Peter knew morphine had a strong effect, though he didn't expect the derivative to be that efficient, especially on him considering his capricious metabolism. 

The pain — _all_ the pain — had gone; a handful of minutes had gone by after swallowing the medicine in Bruce's lab. Suffering faded as he was hobbling back to his private room until it was completely erased. And finally, Peter could take a breath. 

Now, it was just him and a slight lethargic state. 

The first thing he chooses to do was to take a hot bath — the simple thought of melting and relaxing into the perfumed water made him smile. After this horrible day, all he could offer to his poor traumatized body was some comfort. He needed this bath more than anything else in the world. Thus, when Peter entered into the private bathroom adjacent to his room, he didn't hesitate to put a generous foaming soap amount into the bathtub while the water was slowly filling. He lingered over, observing the colourful lights integrated into the white enamelled steel at the bathtub's bottom which were reflecting with the water's small waves, before turning on his heels towards the big mirror.

Peter blinked. 'Pale', Bruce had said, huh? 

Still, he didn't expect to eye across a ghost reflected through the mirror. The corners of his mouth twitched as he brushed his bruised cheek with his fingers. Even if it didn't hurt, the boy shivered. 

He had almost _died_ today. 

Chasing away this dreadful thought from his heavy head, Peter began to undress himself, his eyes staring intently his body as the clothes were showing his contused flesh. Once naked, he kept observing himself in complete silence. Spider-Man's body. Weakened. Wounded. Ashamed. 

His right side was terribly bruised, exposing an impressive rainbow of colours, especially on his shoulder and on the ribs. It was mostly purple or black, but there were green and yellow shades too — depending on each injuries’ recovery state, he mused. With chance, they would be all gone by less than a week. Nevertheless, Peter remained sceptical about his leg: there was no bruise, nor bad swelling. Only memories of pain inside of his left thigh. 

Eventually, after trying in vain to feel something which could be wrong with his fingers, the vigilante gave up and greedily stepped into the circular bathtub, sighing blissfully when the hot water engulfed his sored muscles. 

"Oooh, god..." He huffed after a few seconds, savouring the sensation of the bubbles popping and crackling to perfection against his skin. 

At May's home there wasn't bathtub, but only a basic shower. It wasn’t either any abundance of pleasant luxuries such as here. He couldn't complain, though, and he would never do because he loved his modest life within this small apartment. After all, the only thing that truly mattered was his lovely aunt, and he was happy as long he was with her.

The medicine was working into his system. It was soothing. Peter had the impression that he could have truly melted as he was feeling wholly submitted against those molecules which were freely running his veins. Peter closed briefly his tired eyes, leaning his head on the bathtub's rim. 

"Fri'?" His voice asked in a low breath.

" _Yes, Peter?_ " The A.I. immediately responded, copying his levelled tone. 

"Can you please turn at fifty percent down the lights?"

" _Of course, Peter, but I advise you to not get asleep in the water. You wouldn't want Mr. Stark to awake you with a mouth-to-mouth process, would you?_ " 

He smiled lightly, loving the A.I.’s sass. "Wake me up in twenty minutes if I don't drown until then. Oh, and keep the water warm, would you?"

" _Sure thing._ " 

  
  


**.**

  
  


This sweet soothing of the drugs were unfortunately short-lived. 

As soon Peter opened his eyes the next morning, pain awoke with him. First, low and vague as vertigo of a bad dream, and next, when he sat up in his bed, vivid and sharp right inside of his thigh. 

The brief massage he did to his leg wasn't efficient, if anything, the boy managed to bring himself more pain with his inexperienced hands. So, he quickly abandoned the idea. Frustrated, Peter sighed and bit down at his lower lip. At least, his ribs went better during the night — too bad he couldn't tell as much for his leg. 

Deep down, the boy knew he shouldn't neglect this injury. But he couldn't ignore that he was Spider-Man, which meant he would surmount this obstacle.

He had to.

However, the first step he took outside of his bed led him straight to the ground with a pitiful whimper. What a great picture of Spider-Man he was giving. Though, joking and laughing about his misfortune wasn't his current motivation. Peter wiggled on the carpet until he could kick off his pyjama pant, then, one more time, he gently rubbed his palms on his thigh, holding back some sobs until the teen felt like standing on his feet. 

" _Are you okay, Peter?_ " F.R.I.D.A.Y. suddenly asked.

"Um, yeah yeah... everything's fine..."

" _Peter, your femur is broken. It didn't heal or consolidate through the night, this is why I have to ask you to head to the medical wing and meet doctor Banner. Else, I shall tell Mr. Stark about it._ "

Partly engrossed by the world slowest attempt to rise, Peter simply grunted something between his teeth. "No need. I was going there, anyway." Nevertheless, he didn't want to uselessly alarm his mentor. He was still able to put a foot in front of the other and walk to Bruce's lab as a big boy. "Don't tell Mr. Stark, please..."

" _As long as you take care of you, Peter._ "

Maybe it took him eternity, and maybe the cost was to look like an old blind horse which would have missed a fence, but Peter finally managed to reach Bruce's lab once he got dressed. All along, his whole mind was focused on the medicine that the doctor had given him the previous night, on all the miraculous effects it had offered to him, even if it had only been for a few hours. After a single capsule, all the pain was gone. So all Peter needed was to Bruce to provide him with another capsule, and then the suffering would be gone. 

As he walked into the lab, his forehead glimmering with sweat, Peter almost cringed with dismay and despair when he didn't see Bruce at his desk, or anything else in his private lab. 

"Fri'...?" The Queens' vigilante gasped, bending over and pressing a shaky hand at his left thigh. He didn't recognize his own voice.

" _What can I do for you, Peter?_ " she immediately prompted in a gentle and soothing tone. 

"Bruce... D-Doctor Banner, where is he?" Peter muttered between two shivering breaths, eyes closed as he tried to ignore the pain.

" _Bruce Banner isn't at the Compound, Peter, I'm sorry. Would you like me to call him?_ "

" _No!_ "

He couldn't wait anymore, it was too much. He would not take another step with this leg. Inhaling deeply — with all the courage he could muster — Peter straightens and hobbled towards the wall cupboard, the one where he knew he would find what he was searching for. If it was wrong to use it without Bruce's accord, the teen hadn't the patience or the energy to weigh up the pros and cons. One thing was for sure, Peter couldn't resolve himself to turn around and get out of here — he couldn't _accept_ this pain all day, and he would certainly not.

Peter sighed in relief when he finally found the small blue box; he tightened his fingers around it and brought his hand against his pale mouth, just to feel it, and thanked whatever or whoever was protecting him in the skies. 

And then Peter took out one capsule, swallowed it without water, and put the box exactly where he had found it. 

No one would notice one capsule missing, there was plenty of it, anyways. 

Just as the previous night, the painkiller's effect was only a matter of minutes once eaten. So Peter observed quietly some of Bruce's notes and molecular maquettes in the meanwhile until his left leg felt again like a valid limb. After that, he walked from the room and headed for the living area, hoping to finally have some time with his friends. Hell, he had to check after Clint. The teen's stomach twitched with guilt and anxiety for the man while the elevator was highing. Was he alright? He didn't even ask for him. What a wonderful friend he was, Peter bitterly thought of himself as he clenched tight his fists.

As the elevator reached the destination, the doors opened with a welcoming _ding_ and Peter stepped shyly in the living area. His ears noticed the TV sounds in the background, though the first thing that caught his attention was Clint, sat at the central table, playing cards with Natasha. He couldn't help a huge smile to spread over his face when they both gazed up as he came closer to the duo. The archer looked healthy. To tell the truth, he seemed strict as usual, except for the bandage around his biceps. 

"Welcome back, паук малыш." Natasha greeted with a soft smile as she put a card on the table — a card which with no doubt led Clint to a stinging defeat, given the stunning face he made.

"Hi. And, h-hi Clint." He saw the man frown. "Um, You... you're alright?"

For a moment, Clint looked like he was sincerely wondering what was Peter talking about. If he eventually understood, it was only because Natasha cleared loudly her throat in order to get the archer's attention and point with her chin his arm. 

"Oh! This?" Clint chuckled, shaking slightly his head. "Told ya it was nothing. I already hurt myself far more by stepping on a lego."

His brain didn't allow him to feel preoccupied any longer, so Peter let go all trace of worry and anxiety, and laughed at the man's joke. It seemed to be all Clint was asking for — reassure a kid. 

"Hey, looks like the sleeping beauty is up!" Sam exclaimed from the couch where he was sitting with Bucky and Tony. 

The billionaire got on his feet and joined them at the table. Peter straightened, chin up. "Hey, Mr. Stark!"

"How are your ribs?" The man questioned without preamble. "Bruce told me you met him in the night."

Of course, he did. But he couldn't blame the doctor, especially because he indirectly had done him a favour, since as he had said, Tony just wanted to know that Peter was taking his health seriously. 

Bucky sneered from the couch. "C'mon Tony, unless we're currently talking to the kid's ghost, I think he's pretty alright." 

Mr. Stark's back was facing the other Avengers so the ex-soldier didn't notice his facial expression. Though, Peter, who was in front of the man, saw how his jaw firmly clenched, with its cheek muscle which dangerously jolted. The teen didn't miss either the brief tensed vibes emanating from his mentor, those that had followed Tony for numerous weeks wherever he had been with Bucky near. Sometimes, it was as if Mr. Stark's only wish was to turn towards Bucky and tell him to mind his own fucking business. Just as now. 

"Yeah, thanks, Mr. Captain Obvious..." The billionaire finally grunted, his dark eyes scanning Peter from head to toes. "So?"

"Um... Fine! I'm fine. A little bit sore, but, I'm a tough guy."

Mr. Stark opened his mouth, a quip on his tongue, but Natasha was faster — and smarter. "You sure are." 

It didn't take more for Peter to blush, even if it made him look like a child complemented by his mother for having done an ugly drawing. 

"Where's Steve?" Peter noticed his absence, which was odd since the man was always first in the living area after breakfast.

"Putting the finishing touches to the Vulture affair with Fury in the conference room." Tony's lazily answered.

"What!? Wait... What’s time is it?"

He had almost forgotten the meeting — they were all supposed to meet Fury at 11 A.M to debrief about the Sweden mission.

"It's 2:27 P.M, brat." Clint read his electronic watch. "I can tell you the seconds too if you give me five dollar—"

" _What_?! No..." Peter whined with a desperate voice, putting his fingers through his brown locks.

He had missed the meeting. He had fucking missed the meeting. The one where Fury had been supposed to be, with the Avengers. He had just missed that. Because he had been _sleeping_. 

"What's wrong, buddy?" inquired Mr. Stark, alerted with his sudden distress.

"Why didn't you wake me up?!" Peter rebuked.

Since he had now all the eyes on him, Peter glared back at them all, still stunned by the new. Although Spider-Man wasn't an Avenger, he was still a hero willing to serve his country — the whole _Earth._ He had participated in the mission, he had risked his life for it. Yet, they hadn’t found it necessary to have him for the meeting, and they let him aside. Even Mr. Stark. The teen's heart was hammering against the painful betrayal. 

"You were, uh… sleeping..." Sam was the first to speak, breaking the silence that Peter had established.

"Fury was _here_ ! I... I'm not a kid who needs a nap, I deserved to be a part of this! I was there too, with all of you! I don't want a medal, nor claps, but I'm not the fifth wheel! I could have slept later, instead of sleep right at this moment, as a _part_ of the team! And don't say I'm making a fuss over this because you know this isn't true! I-It was supposed to be the first impression I gave to Fury... and I was sleeping..."

Now he had said all he wanted to spit out, the silence and the stares were suffocating. Peter downed his head, feeling shameful for his outburst. Though, he definitely wasn't about to take his words back.

"Trust me, kid, you missed nothing. It was boring as hell. Actually, you made me kinda jealous." Mr. Stark stated with quick hands gestures. 

Peter's shoulders slouched down. His mentor hadn’t got it. He didn't understand, and he surely wouldn't. 

Bucky gave him a tiny hope. "It wasn't like that, Peter." There was a short silence where the man stood up, approaching the centred table. "Bruce told us to let you recover from the fight. And so we did, following the doctor's orders. No one wants to counter the Hulk, right Peter?"

The last sentence was a joke, but the young vigilante didn’t smile. He remained disappointed and frustrated. However, at least, Bucky didn’t seem to consider him as a dumb toddler. 

Giving up, Peter sighed quietly and buried his hands in his pockets. It was useless to be revolted, it wouldn't change what had happened. Besides, even if the teen was deeply peeved, he still didn't want to appear more childish than the Avengers already thought he was. Mr. Stark hurried to sweep his vexation aside by proposing a Mario Kart game. Of course, Peter said yes to the man which he trusted the most in the entire world, not willing to make another scene in front of the billionaire and play with his patience. 

As the afternoon passed and the hours went by, the pain reawakened.

First sore, then stinging and sharply throbbing at the end of the day. The very same pain as the day prior, that led the boy to quit the lab session sooner with Mr. Stark. 

He pretended to be tired. 

However, instead of waiting for Happy in the Compound’s hall, Peter first stopped off at Bruce's lab which was empty again. When he came out, it was with three capsules: one inside of his stomach and two others in his pocket. 

Just to have support through the healing. 

  
  


**.**

  
  


For Peter, the following days had been an awful and unbearable foretaste of Hell. Every minute, every single second, was ghastly oppressive and exhausting for both of his mental and physical health. There was only one thought that was constantly haunting his mind: pain. 

Pain. Suffering. Calvary. Agony. 

And there wasn't any capsule left to soothe his leg. All the plenitude that accompanied this precious and so desired medicine was long gone, from the day right after living the Compound. Peter hadn't been able to resist — to wait with this pain. But then, the teen had had nothing left, except thin hopes in his powers to protect him from turning mad with this nightmare. Though, the only good thing that had happened to the young vigilante the second day was coming home from school, sweating like crazy after a plunge into a pool, and finding his aunt who accorded him the green light to stay at home the next morning considering his slight fever. 

Truth be told, it didn't take long for Peter to cry openly every time he was alone. The Tuesday, at school, it was hidden in the bathrooms’ stall or, closets; the Wednesday, at home, it was curled in a shaking ball on his bed, drowning with his endless tears. 

Pain. Pain. Pain. And more pain.

Through this agonizing ordeal, Peter couldn't deny it anymore: something was wrong with his leg. Unfortunately, he knew it wasn't a mere problem he could resolve with a little bit of patience and a band-aid. It was the kind of problem which required medical, experienced, attention. 

Which let him two options: go to a hospital, or crawl back to the Compound.

The first one wasn't really an option, for obvious reasons. As for the second one, Peter couldn't bring himself to cadge for the Avengers help. Clint got shot, and he was fine. Why should he be the only one to cause problems? Moreover, it was too late anyway. Peter knew if he told Mr. Stark only now about his leg, the man would accuse him of having hidden this from him for all this time. And he would be right, in a way. He had messed up.

It was the bone, deep inside it. 

Something had broken and wasn’t about to heal.

As undying torture, pictures began to shape into his head, imposing him horrible visions and guesses about how his leg looked from the inside. Images of his own femur, dismantled, fragmented, and crumbly. Everything the vigilante's brain could make up in order to give his pain a logical explanation. Everything possible to give his body's sick, twisted little game the slightest sense — to justify why his powers weren't helping him. Peter let out a loud, pathetic wail, grabbing and rubbing his thigh as he rolled from right to left on his bed — the sheet was wet, almost soaking with his sweat and partially removed, while the pillows were randomly scattered on the mattress. He hadn't quit it since the last night. Neither he had stopped crying silently; at least, when May was not at work. Peter couldn't fight it, no matter how hard he had tried. The pain always won on him, driving him mad bit by bit, with more and more pictures of his traitor bone. 

There weren't capsule anymore. They were gone. There was nothing left to help him. No one. Nothing. No capsule. No medicine. 

_No capsule_. 

"No..." He sobbed at this unbearable thought. "No, no _please_..."

Peter tucked his legs tighter against his chest, nuzzling his knees with his damp nose as a hug he couldn't have. 

He imagined — God, he imagined — the fissure of his bone. He imagines how his healing factor strove to settle back his leg, and how it failed because of his own flesh, trapped between the cracks. He imagined the broken femur's pointy peaks digging into his inner skin, ripping it open again and again, pinching and crushing it mercilessly. 

Other gory and bloody thoughts haunted the boy through the previous hours. When it wasn't the pain which tortured Peter, then it was his imagination. 

Every step became a struggle to not scream and appear normal. But it quickly turned inevitable for his sanity: Peter needed morphine. It wasn't a simple desire, even though he could remember the feeling of it being very pleasant. It was necessary. His brain wouldn't abandon this concession. This need. 

The capsules. 

_Morphine_.

He was thinking about it every time he was in pain, which meant as long as he was awake; let alone when the teen was standing up or daring to walk. 

Whatever he did, though, was tiring. It always led Peter to one aim: morphine. 

Wiping his sweaty forehead, the boy made his choice. 

Morphine. 

  
  


**.**

  
  


On Thursday afternoons, Peter used to have a lab session with his mentor, independent of the weekend where the boy could spend time with all the Avengers. Actually, it was as a real internship. Mr. Stark supervised him while they were working on different kinds of project, especially suit updates, and all the positive appraisals went straight to his CV. Peter enjoyed any new knowledge, but if he was still constantly looking forwards the following lab times, it was because they meant a lot for him; lab times meant time with Mr. Stark. Only him.

However, that day, for the first time, Peter didn't want to stay. 

He had barely touched the prototype designs for the previous two hours. Mr. Stark kept working at his own desk, brows frowned with deep concentration as he used from time to time some noisy electric tool that made the teen grimace every time and leads him to lose slowly but surely his patience. Briefly, Peter wondered why the billionaire hadn’t said anything about the heavy silence yet; why he didn't ask about his unusual behaviour. If he had noticed, then he didn't care. Or maybe he hadn't noticed anything. What was worse? The pain led more frustration to run inside the boy's veins, so he decided that he shouldn't spend so much energy in trying to decipher his mentor's demeanour. Thus, it was the silence treatment, even if it was silly or childish. Did the man even feel the angry vibes? 

Peter clenched his fists on his desk, trying to focus on anything else that could get his attention. But it ended one more time by peeking out at his watch, and sighing when he found out that there was still one hour left before he could go to Bruce's lab and obtain what he was so craving for — the only reason for his presence here. 

Closing his eyes, Peter sought for the memories of those capsules. 

The memories of the pain slowly fading away, of the sweet beatitude enveloping him in the warmest hug he ever had, of this marvellous feeling inside of his head and his heart that made him want to cry and laugh at the same time. 

A shiver ran down his spine as Peter bit his tongue, containing a needy moan. Sweat was soaking his forehead and his injured leg was jolting on and on, in a mix of pain and anticipation. The wait was killing him. One more time, he checked his watch and huffed. He needed it, he needed it, he needed.

"Okay, I'm done with it. Speak." Mr. Stark suddenly said, rising to his feet and heading for the teen's desk where they could face properly. 

Peter gulped, chasing away his half lethargic state. "U-Uh...?"

"You're not paid for this, it's true, but it still breaks my poor fragile heart to witness a workbench as clean as yours." He sniffed, waving at Peter's backpack. "I mean, you're used to establishing a disastrous No-Man's land around here. What's going on, kid?"

 _So he had noticed_ , Peter stated for himself. 

"I, um..."

Though, as nice it was to know the man was caring about him, Peter didn't have enough energy to defend himself from those unwanted questions. He didn't need Mr. Stark to stick his nose into his businesses. So he grunted lowly, tilting his head to the left to ease a searing migraine, ensuring himself to keep an expressionless face. Usually an open book in front of his mentor, Peter was this time distant, clearly putting an invisible fence between them.

"I'm just tired." He didn't mean for his voice to be this cold — he blinked when he heard himself, troubled. 

Tony rolled his eyes in a dramatic way, crossing firmly his arms against his chest. "Yeah, yeah... I didn't say you could use the Joker card on this. I want answers. Or hints? Allusions? Texts? Blink twice if someone is threatening you!"

Although said as a joke, he noticed the short moment where Mr. Stark stared his face, truly searching for any clue. And, aware of his ghastly appearance, Peter only got upset. 

"Oh, as if you care," the vigilante mumbled bitterly. 

There was a sudden shift from Tony's posture. Peter saw the man turn as stiff as a rock, his face marked with stunned and pissed features. "I beg you pardon?"

_Oh, no. It wasn't the time for a fight, he didn't nee—_

"You perfectly heard me the first time," he countered back, his voice wrapped with a sass he had never used before. "If you really were concerned with my wellbeing, you should and would have woke me up instead of letting me sleep while the greatest moment of my life was happening! You wouldn't have let me aside like an annoying dog that you take out of its cage only to impress the friends!"

Where did it come from? It wasn't even in his mind before blurting out of his mouth.

But, now, it was said. Too late to take it back. 

"...What?"

Tony was seriously taken aback, Peter could tell. The engineer had his eyes strictly narrowed, almost closed, and his lips were slightly parted. Peter could have laughed at his face if he wasn't fighting an urge to throw up right at the desk's surface. 

"Are you... serious?" Mr. Stark had a backward movement. "Wait, Pete, are you serious? Like, ten percent serious or hundred percent serious?"

Peter didn't answer. He kept staring back, with the same frustrated expression. Then Tony dryly chuckled, turning on his heels and taking a few steps away from the teen. "I didn't think you were that resentful. You got me there, Peter."

No 'kid', nor 'Pete'. Tony was really pissed off. 

And so was he. 

They let him sleep. They fucking let him aside. Which obviously meant they didn't trust him enough to handle this. Peter wasn't a kid, he could read the silence. It wasn't paranoia. They were all against him. He _knew_ it. 

Anger started to boil inside him — Peter soothed it as much as he could with a deep breath. 

"I think you should go home," Mr. Stark finally concluded. "If you can't bear what is good for you without stamping like a little kid, then... just go home, Peter." 

That was all he was asking for; a simple excuse to scarper away from Tony and get the medicine. Yet, he flinched when he heard the man's words, both surprised and hurt that he gave in without more fight. Peter felt so disconcerted he almost forgot why he had made the effort to come at the Compound in a first place. He stared at Mr. Stark's back as the billionaire returned at the hologram towering over the lab's centre, swallowing back the urge to apologise, and then walked out of the room, head up.

Something more important was waiting for him. Something which wouldn't contradict him. 

When his painful limp eventually allowed him to reach doctor Banner's lab after a long and very slow walk, the first thing Peter did was to hurl himself at the wall cupboard, almost tugging off the small wooded doors in the process. The answer to his suffering was just there, at a hand reach away. Blinking desperately, trying to see through the tears haze, Peter whined loudly when he didn't manage to correct his vision. All the boxes were blurred.

"C'mon... please, c'mon... W-Where are you..." 

All of his weight was on his good leg, hopping weakly, as he rummaged frantically inside of the cupboard, shoving all the boxes he didn't recognize as his. A voice in the boy's head told him to tear it off, and take everything. A very attractive voice, appearing more clever than anything as Peter's tears ran down on his cheeks under the stiffening fear of endless pain. But then, he saw it. The little blue box. 

"Oh my god!" He shrieks with disbelief, taking the precious box with so much prudence and care that he looked as if he was holding the more precious jewel in the world. 

He felt his phone buzzing into his pocket — surely Happy informing the teen he had arrived to pick him up home. Peter ignored it. 

He kept looking at the box, enticed with the sweet promise hidden inside. 

The next thing he knew was that he found himself with a capsule on his palm, calling, singing out for him, and then, he finally slides it between his lips. And with a low hum, he savoured the familiar shudder which was growing into his whole body, the warm feeling that spread under his skin, and the pins and the needles at the back of his neck, manteling his spider senses off. 

Peter's eyes rolled back when he swallowed the morphine, meeting the long-missed Heaven's foretaste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since you're here... why not leave a comment ? A kudos ? A smile ? Share opinions is important! 
> 
> PS: I checked the chapter 2 once posted in order to see if everything was alright, and I noticed that, at the end of the chapter, there is two notes, with the one that I wrote for the chapter one. Does anyone know how to remove it from this chapter - and the soon following chapters?


	3. Whatever it Takes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! Guess who's back? *get a tomato in the face* Okay, okay... I'm a little bit late. But, fundamentally, what does 'late' means, huh? 
> 
> Better late than never. So, everyone, here the chapter 3 of Addiction! 
> 
> Enjoy!

Peter was a logical person. Gifted and advantaged in mathematical, physical, and biological intellectual processes, just as his family and teachers have often said and repeated to him, but also in the simple reasonings of everyday life. Peter could understand problems, analyze situations, and figure out solutions in the end as naturally as a fish swimming in water. It was his element.

Though, when the teenager needed it the more, his brain seemed to not be able to even think about anything right.

It was just as if any trace of logic had been frozen in his brain, preventing him from using the mere capacity of thinking, reflecting, or even using the least good sense to help him to get free from this nightmare. The vigilante was stuck with his own mind, with all of his heavy thoughts inhibited by the medicine that was feeding his organism since now more than an endless and long week. Every now and then, Peter had the impression that everything around him had lost its sense — it happened in the morning, that he was feeling himself as automated as a robot because of his mechanical gestures when he was getting ready for school. Life was in slow-motion. Or it was all about him, he wasn't certain.

His laughter and madness instants, those too rare moments where everything was losing importance, those moments, where Peter was fine and not feeling like crying for a yes or a no, happened luckily for the most of them when he was alone in his bedroom at night — when he was taking two capsules instead of one, just to be sure to sleep despite his own mind that he couldn't control, the said mind which wasn't his anymore.

This painkiller was destroying something in him. But it was fixing his leg which, too, was like a phantom to him since Sweden.

The painkiller was making his world bearable.

He needed it, it was necessary to his life. 

Peter noticed soon enough that the medicine was unfortunately only efficient for a poor couple of hours — maybe three or four. From time to time, only two, when his body had decided to burn voraciously the molecules more quickly in his system to monopolize every single effect.

It was with a horror hard to qualify that Peter witnessed the little blue capsules’ amount decrease day by day, approaching slowly their disappearance.

Every relief he was granting himself with was bringing him closer to the fateful moment where he would have soon to endure this calvary again.

And it was terrifying him more than anything else. 

Nevertheless, either he wanted it or not, it was happening. It was inevitable, as all the misfortunes and tragedies that had descended upon the life of the young Peter. All of it was just a bitter record of an old song whose he knew the lyrics by heart.

The teenager knew that he couldn't just find safety and peace by taking refuge at the Compound medical wing, F.R.I.D.A.Y. would without fail alert Mr. Stark about it, and thus he would have to explain a lot of things to his mentor. Although his moronic brain wouldn't allow him to do such a simple act as talk rationally, not when he was struggling to have a mere conversation with his friends without looking weird. However, while days were slowly passing, capsules kept disappearing until there was none left inside of this familiar little blue box. When the day Peter had feared came, he had a tiny hope that after all this time his leg would have healed by itself with his healing factor, even though the idea of not being able to swallow those pills anymore gave him a strange feeling of nausea and revolt, along with a bitter taste in his mouth. God, how much he had been wrong. The pain never had been this intense, throbbing and sharp before, stinging, such as a punishment for having wanted to spare himself from pain, and foil suffering for a — too - short time. Every good thing had an end, and it wasn't Parker Luck that could refute this cruel law.

Shakiness and tremors began barely a few hours after the last take of the very last capsule, giving Peter the redoubted opportunity to have a taste of the other aspect of the drug whose he had became infatuated with through the previous days.

Closing his eyes and breathing deeply to gain some control over his muscles and the pain, the young vigilante created a mental barrier between him and the world that was surrounding him, until he was safe in his personal bubble. Focusing on many things at the same time was pretty difficult for the boy, that's why he chose to linger on his own control. Because he had to appear normal. He couldn't let clues on his way about what he was doing. It was bad, he knew it.

But everything was fine as long he could handle the situation. He could control his body, he could overcome the painkillers, morphine, and capsules’ absence...

He could. 

"... So, how does it sound, Underoos?"

Peter suddenly broke out of his thoughts, blinking fast to clear up his sight and fighting back a shiver. 

"Uh? Um..." He swallowed thickly as he brushed his messy and sweaty hair away from his pale face. "Sounds great, sounds great." 

"Ah-ah!" tutted the engineer 

Mr. Stark sounded like he had just won a bet, jumping up from his wheeling chair and heading towards his protégé with big and confident steps, pointing at the younger. "You weren't listening, were you? I knew it. And don't lie to me, I'm always right, right?"

For unknown reasons, Peter felt attacked by his mentor's energy. Too loud, fast, and... bright. It was giving him a bad headache, so he downed his face and grunted.

A snap near his sensitive ear made him start slightly, though he didn't look up despite the older's insistence. 

"Hey, are you with me? One-two, one-two, Earth to Peter?" A weak sigh from Mr. Stark followed the silence. "You know how I can tell you weren't listening?" Silence, again, except for his forehead bumping against his desk. "Because I way saying that Star Trek was better than Star Wars, and in consequences, we should en-ti-re-ly redecorate your bedroom's style. And, correct me if I'm wrong, but... you wouldn't let that happen, would you?" 

"No..." The vigilante whined in a breath. 

"I knew you had some sense in the little head of yours, kid." 

When the man reached to ruffle his head, Peter felt it before it could happen and he straightened up in a quick and sharp motion, glaring at the Avenger with an annoyed and frustrated look that he couldn't even ease down. Mr. Sark was the first to react then, clearing his throat and looking away once the surprise faded. 

"Um. So, uh... The web-shooters." Tony waved at the central and communal desk. "They're ready, I added the manual command on the electric-web..."

At this instant, Peter began to slowly count to ten in his head. He knew it was the moment where he was supposed to feel guilt showing up as a knot formed inside of his guts, making him regret words and behaviours, though Peter hadn't either patience or the right mood to make concessions to his mentor. His bloody leg was painful beyond the imaginable, and he still couldn't do anything against it except suffering in silence. The pain was astonishingly stronger when he was musing about the fact that, somewhere down, here at the Compound, were medicines able to help him — probably at the infirmary or Bruce's lab. Too bad he couldn't just go in there, considering F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s treacherous surveillance.

Why was he here? The proximity with the potential morphine's presence was driving him mad, it was unbearable. So close...

"I'm sorry, but, I think you're trying to talk with me?" Mr. Stark prompted, seeming to have gotten closer considering his voice level — or maybe Peter's ears were, again, getting too sensitive. 

Slowly tilting his heavy head from right to left, the teenager eventually crossed the man's gaze. 

"Uh...?" 

Tony rolled his eyes before using both of his hands to wave and mime random, preposterous gestures as if he was using sign language. "Helloo~? You were grumbling something, squirt."

Oh... _again_ , then. The pills tended to make him talk out loud, sometimes, without him noticing it when he was certain that everything was happening in his tired mind. Peter sniffed shortly, playing distractedly with his crossed fingers.

"C'mon, I need you to help me here, Pete... I..." A brief curse cut the man's words, emphasizing his struggle to face and have a proper conversation with the younger. "You’re acting weird, lately. May noticed, too."

He held back a snigger, which didn't pass unnoticed to Tony. 

"And as much... fun this whole thing is for you, you should get a hold of yourself, kid. Not for me, nor all the super-friends you have here," he pointed at a wall, referring the other Avengers, "but for your aunt. This isn't right if her only option was to send me a message, asking me to help her because you wouldn't talk to her — your guardian. Fuck, Pete, you can't be like that, you’re never like this— What the hell, are you smiling?!"

Anger was easing pain, so, without regret or hesitation, Peter used it against his mentor who was staring him with both incertitude and confusion.

"Whoa... This is where I'm supposed to feel anything warm, or special because you two are forming the greatest duo of hen mother?"

Frustration grew within Mr. Stark eyes as he shifted in front of the younger desk, fists clenched by his sides. 

"I know this isn't the first time she sent you a message because she needs you to look after me just as if I'm a… fucking toddler. So, nothing's weird. It’s only because you wouldn't stop looking at me, and acting like something's wrong, but... But everything is fine, everything's perfect, I-I'm... I am tired, and you're making a red-alert about it!"

He pressed the clammy palm of his left hand against his temple, seeking for some comfort whilst Tony took a firm step forward. "I do care."

Opening his eyes and darting a glance at Tony, Peter frowned slightly. 

"About you."

There was a short and awkward silence after that, where both of the boys looked elsewhere rather than at each other. But Tony eventually pursued. 

"I've been thinking about what you said, last week. And... I know you know. So I won't say it again, but you know. What you've implied was unfair, and so is what you've just said. I'm trying — truly trying — but this attitude," his gaze listed upon Peter, "won't help. We have talked about it, months ago, and I thought it was a cleared subject... You know, the damn whole ‘if-you're-not-okay-then-say-it’ thing? _Tu parles, je parle…"_

Christ, why did the man have to choose this moment to have a heart-to-heart with him?

Despite everything the pain and the morphine's effects could submit the teen to think and do, he still could see his mentor's efforts to help Peter with whatever was bothering him. It made him want to throw up — unless it was something else? 

"... after Sweden, and whatever happened since then, you’ve changed. I gave you the time, I let you alone, I let you alone to come and talk to me, but... You just... continued this shit. Now it involves May, and I can't play the blind-guy about it anymore, kiddo. I can't. And no matter how good I am with maths, physics, engineering, hell, even biology, nothing of that is helping me right now to solve this problem."

The previous frustration that had seemed to boil briefly into Mr. Stark veins a few minutes earlier was now replaced by a soft smile on his face.

"I just want to help you."

This time, culpability weight was heavier to hold up than any other charge the teenager had had to carry in his short life, more suffocating and crushing than the building that the Vulture had made collapse on him, more overwhelming than Tony's disappointment toward him after the Ferry's incident. All of that felt like having a ‘guilt’ brand on his forehead.

He had tried to hide his problems. He had persuaded himself, and maybe still was he, that he could find a solution on his own, that everything would be alright at the end if he had enough will and hope. But now, as Mr. Stark had mentioned, Peter was just giving fuel for his family and friends’ concern, especially to May who didn't deserve to be burden with more stress in her life. The thought of having to go through all of this suffering for nothing deepened the nausea which was flipping his weak stomach; Peter exhaled loudly and leaned against the back of his wheelie chair, his gaze sliding shamefully down to escape from his mentor's piercing stare.

With his mind still groggy and slow, the Queens' vigilante had trouble with making a decision. From a second to another, it happened to him to forget why he was in this room.

However, it was more difficult to ignore Mr. Stark — Mr. Stark who didn’t seem ready to give up.

The man's demeanour was undoubtedly what bothered young Peter the most, who was not used to seeing so much kindness and compassion emanating from Tony. But it was there, undeniable. Two chocolate orbs staring at him with patience and hope, waiting to hear some confession from him. And, Christ, Peter was tempted.

Time froze in a fateful pause. And, for that short moment, Peter forgot about pain, nausea, and anger. He forgot his exhausted body which was shivering with cold sweat.

A chance was occurring. 

His dry, cracked lips parted in realization as a glint awoke in Peter's eyes. Tony remained silent, respectful of the inner fight his protégé seemed to go through in his head. Then the teenager understood that everything could end today and now, that he could end all of this if he confessed to Mr. Stark what he had never dared to say since returning from Sweden. An unhoped help finally appeared.

"Peter..." 

Once again, the concerned finds himself torn between truth and silence. He dove himself so far and deep in this whole lie that a part of him didn’t think it was possible to step out of this vicious circle. 

Peter dared to look at Tony and his throat tightened painfully.

"Talk to me, buddy..."

He had promised never to hide anything from Iron Man again. And Tony had learned to trust Spider-Man. It was a simple and sensible system. Yet, he had lied to him openly since returning from the mission, with so much ease, and poise, that Peter could have sobbed in shame right there and then, finally comprehending the gravity and consequences of his choices. It was too late... Peter had broken his word. How was the man he once idolized was ever going to be able to look him in the eye again when he would learn that Peter had deliberately lied to him, that he had stolen Bruce, and that he had hidden his injuries from everyone? He'd screwed up, and he didn't have enough mental strength to face Tony's anger and disappointment today.

The truth wasn’t an option.

He would find a solution in the end. Spider-Man always found a way to get through problems and be OK. Time, it was everything he needed to put things right. Time. And a little bit of morphine — just a little bit. 

Ignoring his tremoring body, Peter turned his head away with lassitude. "As I said, I'm tired."

A few seconds were enough to build up an uncomfortable tension in the atmosphere; Peter shifted in his seat, licking his chapped lips.

"Oh," Tony whispered with a tensed smile. "I see."

Without waiting any longer than necessary, and probably to distract his mind from the odd atmosphere that had just settled in the lab, Peter grabbed a pencil and began to randomly scribble on one of his homework sheets, his free hand supporting his head as if he was plunged into a complex problem. He guessed the discussion was over when suddenly Mr. Stark came back, all kindness in his voice fading. Sarcasm was loudly obvious to the ears of the youngest who stiffened immediately.

"Because of your Spidey-job, I imagine?"

Without hesitation nor reflection, he jumped headfirst on that excuse which was gifted to him on a silver plate. "Yeah, that’s why..."

"Mmh..." He heard Mr. Stark hummed as the man started to pace slowly before him. "I see." 

Suddenly he turned to Peter and sniffed disdainfully, arms crossed firmly on his chest in a posture that left no room for negotiation.

"Then you won’t mind telling me why it's giving you such a hard time when you hadn't put the suit since Sweden?" 

The teenager's blood froze in his veins as he straightened up. A flash of fear and betrayal passed in his hazel eyes when his brain finished decode Tony's words.

The Avenger arched an eyebrow before Peter could retort anything, sensing the younger's rebellion in advance as if he knew him by heart — as if he could read his mind. The thought revolted Peter who stood up abruptly; his chair backed up several feet before banging loudly against the wall behind, though neither of the boys paid any attention to this detail. Peter could feel a familiar feeling of frustration growing and igniting in his chest.

"You did it again!" The vigilante blamed first. "You had no fucking right! You gave me your word!"

"Ah, speaking of which you aren't giving a damn thought, too. You just lied to me, looking at me right in the eyes! You sure you wanna play the victim card here, kid?! You sure you're in a good position for that?!"

"Fuck you!"

The words left his mouth faster than his thoughts, but Peter didn't care about it. The pain was rushing into his left leg, holding his attention and preventing him from witnessing the brief shock on Tony's face. Though, in a way, he could still guess and feel it right in his heart. It was so, so wrong. 

"Ah, big boy words now, huh? How sweet, little Peter is growing up."

" _Fuck. You._ " Peter reiterated with a mortal poison in his dangerously low voice while fury tears were burning his eyes.

He hated himself as much he hated Tony at this moment. 

"What? Touched a sensible nerve, _kiddo_? I'm sorry to hear that. But as long this lab is mine, I won't tolerate you, lying openly to me! I gave you a chance, to tell the truth, and you've chosen otherwise. You know what? Fine! Do as you wish, but then don't blame me for doing my fucking job!" 

"I didn't ask you anything! I didn't and I don't need your damn help, old man! I'm doing fine!" His voice was far louder than his mentor's, however, he kept going, letting his anger take the step over him. "You're monitoring me, again! You said you'd stop this shit! You said you trusted me!" There was a short break where he sniffed pitifully a few time whilst taking his breath. "B-But you _lied_! You don-don't trust me... I..."

The man was still keeping an eye on Spider-Man activity, which meant he still was using the tracker, and other many protocols to pamper him. 

Peter banged his fist at the desk, creating a crater in the glass. The display of violence was more surprising since it contrasted with his broken, high-pitched voice. Instinctively, Mr. Stark stepped forward once the surprise had passed, but the teenager moved back vehemently. After a few seconds, Peter felt his tremors increase, and then he knew that he had to leave the room, quickly, before alarming more the man who was staring at him in spite of himself, with a concern poorly masked.

"I knew it, anyway... I... I'm just a little bit tired, Mr. Stark. Thanks for inviting me, but I need to go."

It seemed to pull the mechanic out of his trance; he heard him scream behind his back as he rushed towards the exit. "Pete, we're not done yet! Hey!"

  
  


**.**

  
  


Staying in a place where there was something he could use to appease his pain was driving him crazy anyway. To imagine that more of these fantastic pills were somewhere in the compound, right at his disposal, was unbearable.

So, leaving was the best way to put an end to all of his problems, especially with Mr. Stark. 

But as he walked back to Happy's car, a new struggle reappeared, more cruel and distressing than ever: look normal.

The pain had never really left him, it was a fact Peter was aware of, however, he wished he had never had to face it again. But no morphine, no peace. It was that easy. And now Peter had to focus on everything he could other than his leg.

The vigilante excused his pallor and red eyes to the driver by the argument he had had with Tony. It had the merit of countering any suspicion as to the real reason for his condition, and so Peter could close his eyes and rest for the duration of the trip knowing that Happy would not dig any further.

Back at his apartment, Peter was relieved not to see May — she was probably at work. To tell the truth, he wasn't quite sure anymore. Had he spoken to his aunt recently? A wave of guilt made him dizzy momentarily, and the teenager had to grab onto the back of his desk chair to not collapse on the floor. It was the same feeling he had with his mentor earlier in the afternoon.

Taking a deep breath to calm down, Peter glanced at his aching leg before whispering weakly, "I hate you... stupid leg..."

Now that he was alone and safe from prying eyes, Peter could finally let go of his mask and freely express his pain. The tremors picked up again with the greatest intensity — first with his hands, then quickly followed by all four of his limbs — and his whole body began to sweat more than he could imagine as if was bathing in the flames of Hell. Affliction haunted him mercilessly. Peter sat down heavily on the edge of his bed and burst into sobs, no longer having the strength to contain the tears. It was probably a very pathetic sight he was displaying about himself, though the teenager couldn't resolve himself to keep his head up high after such a shitty day. Everything was going in the worst direction, everything was going wrong, everything was against him.

So he cried until he had no more tears, he cried praying that the pain would go away, he cried hoping he had the courage to tell Mr. Stark the truth.

Oh, Tony… 

Placing his hand against his mouth, the young hero sobbed desperately as he realized how much he had fucked up.

Reflexively, his hand slipped into his jeans pocket to find his phone; his whole being was begging for Mr. Stark's forgiveness, he couldn't risk damaging this relationship that was so precious to him. He couldn't lose Tony… never. It would kill him.

But when Peter had the option of making the call or leaving a message, he found himself petrified to his bed, unable to move or initiate contact. He thought about what he might say and concluded that the outcome was doomed to be perilous. It was just… stupid. Talking to Tony after their previous altercation would just be insane. Peter knew himself. And he knew the man too; he could sense from here how bad the idea was. So instead of going through with this childish reconciliation project, Peter took his earphones out of his other pocket and displayed music once plugged to occupy his mind.

It worked for a short while. He let himself be lulled by the melody, chosen deliberately slow and soothing. Then the happiness ended.

The pain seemed to increase by a notch every minute, so he turned up the sound of his music concurrently as a parry as if the music could save him and trick his brain. Strangely, Peter found it to be the case.

The volume was too loud for his sensitive ears — his eardrums painfully contested the aggressive sound waves, however, Peter didn't give in. The louder the music was, the more his brain could focus on something other than his leg. So he began to sing the lyrics in the chorus. First by whispering them, then patting his hands on his thighs in rhythm with the instrumental percussion, eyes closed firmly. In the end, once he started screaming the words, his voice grew hoarse and half-broken. But he persevered. Peter next recited the Periodic Table of the Elements aloud, screaming as loud as he could, the earphones still in his ears, and when the pain returned anyway, he leapt up, using his superhuman strength to stick his hands flat on ceiling and start pull-ups until exhaustion.

"Twelve, Magnesium...! Thirteen, Aluminium!"

The sensory overload was intolerable. But it worked, it kept him from thinking about the pain. To think about the capsules whose he was so in need of, those he wanted so much.

"Twenty-six... Iron Man... Twenty-seven, Cobalt...!"

New tears prickled the skin of his cheeks. This time it was tears of desire. God, he shouldn't have thought of morphine. Peter could almost feel a capsule on his tongue. The shape, the texture, the taste… He had the reflex to swallow, and when nothing came to assuage his need, his tongue repeatedly bent and unfolded, eagerly looking for a phantom capsule.

Frustration naturally arose, and the pace of the pull-ups picked up, no matter how tired his exhausted muscles were.

He was not dependent. Peter knew he was stronger than that, that he was too smart to be fooled by ridiculous little pills. Still, he needed it no less, and that didn't mean anything about pseudoaddiction. There was no connection.

He couldn't explain it, it was too complicated, too complex, but Peter knew. It was not human to live with such pain, no one could get over that, and certainly not him. Tony might be angry at his hasty and thoughtless decisions, but he sure would understand. Because Peter needed it.

So much. 

A glint of determination began to shine in his glassy eyes as Peter understood what he had to do.

  
  


**.**

  
  


Night was slowly settling into New York City as city lights turned on one after another to keep the streets bright.

For Peter, every light was aggressive.

As well every honking, every wheel’s screech — even every whisper made him wince.

Gritting his teeth, he buried his shaking hands deeper into the pockets of his sweatshirt, continuing to limp lightly through the town, his falling face half-hidden by a large hood and a pair of sunglasses he had snatched from a street merchant.

Despite the numerous questions that plagued his mind, Peter showed no hesitation whatsoever. The purpose he had set for himself was ingrained in his head, and nothing could have distracted him from his mission. Not when the stake was to get his hands on morphine and put a stop to his pain. Too many hours had passed since the last painkiller took, and although he was not addicted to it, the pain was still present, and he had to do something about it while he was still of sound mind.

After a long walk through the dark streets of the city, the teenager finally reached the desired destination. A trembling smile stretched his dry lips as he stepped into the premises of the huge building that stood in front of him.

The hospital. 

His reasoning was as desperate as it was logical, but it didn't matter to him, knowing how to achieve his ends.

Where there was a hospital, there was morphine. 

A new form of guilt weighed down his steps as he navigated through the hospital's partially deserted corridors. Peter knew that if he was here, it was with dishonest and punishable attention — punishable by Spider-Man, dammit. Theft was not a good thing, it was a heinous crime to steal from people something they might need. But maybe it wasn't so bad if, more than them, he really, really, needed it? Was it theft if he intended to pay off that loan? Peter convinced himself as much as he could while making sure to keep his head down so as not to be noticed by a few nurses or patients who sometimes crossed his path. Regularly they darted curious looks on him, which did not fail to skyrocket his stress, fearing to have seemed too obvious in his attentions and to have been betrayed by his appearance or his allure.

Eventually, Peter stopped in front of a door, in the middle of a long, empty hallway. Reflexively he put all of his weight on his right leg to spare himself a tiny bit of pain — it wasn't much, but it made the difference between remaining conscious and passing out in suffering.

‘ _Store, strictly reserved for authorized personnel’_ could be read on the wood of the door.

Of course, it was locked, but that was no a big deal for the Queens' vigilant who made the lock give way with a mere single squeeze against the handle as if the system had just been rusted. Then he sneaked in, making sure to shut the door silently behind him.

It was now too late to turn around. It was stupid, totally and utterly stupid, suicidal, but he had no choice.

He needed—

Shaking his head, the teenager put his glasses aside and started walking between the shelves of the storeroom in search of what he wanted so much, his crazy eyes moving wildly from place to place with frenzy.

May had worked here before being transferred to another hospital; hence his knowledge of the place. But the experience that was precious to him here was undoubted all the hours in his youth spent wandering in the premises, innocently exploring every nook and cranny when May hadn't been able to bring him home after school, or looking after him properly.

He knew it was unlikely to come across a member of the nursing staff, especially at this time of day. However, that was only valid if Parker's Luck was not taken into account.

"What are you doing here...?" asked a shy and surprised voice suddenly behind him.

At first paralyzed, Peter was brutally animated by energy, an unprecedented instinct filled with fear and anger which drove him cornered to his last entrenchments. He turned around quickly, legs shaking and clenched fists, and bared his teeth in a desperate attempt to be imposing — the effect would probably have been better if his teeth hadn't been chattering, but Peter did it nevertheless, too busy glaring at the young nurse who had burst into the room.

His anguish was growing up, mainly exaggeratedly exacerbated by the pain. Peter was terrified that he wouldn't get what he came for, and go to jail for the breach he had committed. He would never have morphine in prison.

"Back off!" the teenager cried aggressively, ready to throw punches first if required. 

The young man took a hesitant step back, unsure of how to proceed in such a situation. However, he could not help reacting when he saw the adolescent's pallor as well as the violent tremors that shook his frail body.

"A-Are you hurt, kid?" His gaze hastily travelled over Peter's form from head to toe. "I can find help, seems like you're in a pretty bad state... Just come with me."

Before the man could even approach one centimetre, Peter promptly and shortly launched his body forward in silent warning, teeth still manifest. "Don't approach! Get away from me! Go away!"

This man was going to take his morphine away from him, he was there only for that. But he wouldn't let such a tragedy happen, Peter was going to get the pills, whatever it took. He then turned to the shelves and continued frantically rummaging, negligently dropping boxes and various other items in the process. The nurse tried a new approach, anxiety now obvious in his voice, though soothing as if he was talking to a wounded animal.

"You don't have to be scared, kid... You need help, I-I won't hurt you, trust me. Here, let me—"

Feeling a hand getting close _—_ _too close_ _—_ his senses twitched in an explosion of confusion, terror, and rage; without thinking about it, Peter grabbed the man's arm and hurled him through the storeroom in an insane and superhuman push, which sent him colliding with incredible force against a wall on the opposite side. A low _thud_ echoed as his head hit it, creating a crack in the surface. Then the body fell limply to the ground, inert and silent as if it had never been there.

Peter's world turned upside down, as did his unsteady stomach, as the realization of his actions hit him full force. A heavy atmosphere then sprung around, whilst the body remained motionless.

It wasn't until Peter noticed a small puddle of blood streaming on the floor from the man's skull that he finally reacted.

"H-Hey... sir...?" His heart tightened in his chest as he took a small step towards the man, his hand rising slowly as he tried again. "Are you alright?" Peter sounded like a child lost in a huge crowd; it felt as much suffocating, he could certify. 

No response. 

"Please, please be alright... please?"

The silence was worse than anything. Peter held back his heartbreaking sobs as much as he could as the puddle of blood grew bigger by the minute, but still no sign of life. Guiltily lowering his head, the young criminal returned to his previous occupation, trying to pretend nothing had happened and ignoring his soaring fear and anguish. As he searched, Peter felt for a second an icy breath on the back of his neck, which left him with an unpleasant tingling sensation that ruffled every hair on his body. He jumped abruptly, his breath stuck in his throat, and turned to protect his backside. Though, the only sight that greeted him was the nurse, lying in the same place he had been left, still rigid and quiet. The eerie view was so hard to bear that Peter found himself forced to close his eyes in order to block the tears and spare himself another wave of guilt.

"Sorry, sir, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. So sorry..."

It became a mantra that lasted as long as Peter was in the storeroom with the body, as long as it took him to find a few boxes of morphine.

"Sorry... sorry..." 

The words lost their meaning when the vigilante’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he stuffed his pockets of medicine, forgetting what he had done to a human being, forgetting the harm he had just done for his own purpose. Peter was happy to have found what he had come for and to be able to tell himself that he might soon find some peace in the Hell into which he was sinking day by day. And as he hurried away from the scene of his crime, he didn't give a second look at the life he had just stolen.

**.**


	4. Stepping into Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: mention of blood, death and violence.
> 
> Hi everyone, how are ya? Me? I'm good, thanks for asking.  
> Writters have feelings... *sad song displaying*.
> 
> Anyway! It's good to be back ;) I hope you'll like the chapter 4. A big thank to my beta reader, and to everyone who let a comment or a kudos, it means a lot for me! 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Peter**

Peter's life had always been punctuated by many disappointments and disillusions, to the point where he was hardly ever surprised when fate was in the mood to play tricks on him. Yet, that day, just as Parker Luck had struck again, the teenager found himself curled up on the cold bathroom floor, screaming and crying with all his being — howling in despair and pain once realization sprouted up in his head; the pills weren't affecting his enhanced organism.

Morphine, as it could be found in hospitals, was of no help to him, which meant that whatever he had done to get the medicine had been vain.

And the suffering never parted from him, like an old friend.

Sobbing and sniffing pitifully, still plagued by shivers far too numerous to count, Peter ran a hand through his greasy hair impregnated with sweat. His sight was cloudy, whether from fatigue, tears, or other factors that he couldn't cite for cruel lack of lucidity. The squares of the tiled floor rippled at his feet, stirring a feeling of omnipresent nausea in his stomach until ultimate retching made him crawl to the toilet bowl and throw up all the freshly ingested pills inside. All of them. The little boxes’ entirety.

A new stream of fresh tears flooded his cheeks.

**.**

**Bucky**

"You did good, Buck…" A hand on his shoulder brought him back to Earth.

He tried to smile, but nothing convincing for Steve. His friend knew him by heart; any attempt to lie was useless. Bucky eventually sighed, defeated.

"Yeah... you think so?"

They both looked up discreetly at Tony, who was pacing around the conference room's table. He seemed up in arms, this time. And both Steve and Bucky felt uncomfortable by being the three of them, together in the same room — bad memories inevitably resurfaced, which explained the agitation of the ex-Hydra agent. 

His gaze rested once again on the holographic projection that hovered in the centre of the room above the table. It was replaying the same scene repeatedly by default until instructed otherwise, which neither of them seemed to want to do. A heavy feeling of failure was overwhelming them all.

In the morning, it was a far cry from the way he had imagined the day to unfold.

Earlier, Bucky had been assigned to the reception and the digital sort of the missions suggested weekly by S.H.I.E.L.D.. And although it was one of the tasks his teammates abhorred the most, them, who shared an unspeakable aversion for administrative duty or other inescapable paperwork, he still didn't complain about it, simply accepting that it was a job that must be done anyways and that it was an interesting advantage to be updated on what was new around the globe.

The task in itself was relatively elementary — it was all a matter of reflection about whether or not to accept the mission (taking into account the formation and choice of the team, the formulation of a plan, and other factors and criteria which allow the Avengers to select certain assignments), or pass it on to other groups specializing, notably the X-Men. They were the ones who were contacted the most often after the Avengers, as most missions or investigations targeted unusual individuals who have gotten noticed on cameras — young mutants, for the majority of them. It was also necessary to rely on the dossiers presenting the missions to assess the level of associated danger or to determine if it was popular fake news posted online if it concerned an individual a little bit too particular.

Nothing was out of the ordinary for Bucky until he had viewed a video coming from a hospital in New York, where the aggression on a member of the medical staff took place — fatal, unfortunately. It was a few days ago.

The thief — and the assailant — presented remarkable strength, which was one of the most common criteria observed in enhanced people. Again, nothing out of the ordinary for the Avengers.

Observations: _violent individual, potentially unstable and under the influence of drugs._

Conclusions: _must be found, and controlled for the others' security._

Sam was probably the most qualified for this mission, the ex-soldier had thought at first. Wilson had good skills with confused and disoriented teenagers; he always knew how to find the right words to talk some sense into people's heads. But then a detail caught Bucky's attention just before he got to work on another dossier.

He remembered being frozen on his chair, blinking with a dazed expression for many minutes as he warred with his feelings. Part of him just didn't want to believe it because it was insane. And the other part knew that he hadn't dreamed or imagined what he had seen, that the situation was perfectly real. The proof was concrete.

The aggressor in the footage was wearing Peter's sweatshirt.

Peter Parker, aka Spider-Man. His teammate. Their teammate.

Hell, their _friend_.

There was no way he could have been wrong about it. This sweatshirt… Bucky could have recognized it anywhere.

Peter treasured it. With an emerald green colour, it was represented on the fabric, in the front, a drawing of Captain America, wearing Iron-Man's colours, titled by the phrase _Happy Halloween_. Steve had given it to the kid a few months earlier. And a mistake was outright impossible — it was a one-off model designed by the leader of the group himself. Drawn by his hand. There was just no mistake.

F.R.I.D.A.Y. provided them with the much-dreaded confirmation after a brief analysis of the recorded voice sample, also as the individual's size and corpulence.

It was from Peter.

Once out of his torpor, the first thing Bucky's instinct had dictated him to do was to report the video to Steve and Tony — which he had done without thinking further about it.

Steve, because he was the leader and he had always blindly relied on him for good advice on how to proceed, and Tony because... well, because this was _Peter_ they were talking about. Bucky, though, had chosen not to alert the other Avengers on the situation; he didn't want to cry wolf or stir up general panic with hasty conclusions. But, always one sure thing: if it was concerning Parker, Bucky had the conviction that everyone within this building would throw body and soul to give a hand on this intervention.

But first of all, they needed to understand.

The person in the video was Peter. And was not Peter. Something was up, and they had to find out what.

"This is absurd..." Stark grumbled between his clenched teeth, his aura turning slowly from unfriendly to heavily oppressive. "That doesn't make any fucking sense — this is utter bullshit!"

"Tony... don't you think it would be a great idea to sit down with us and have a talk about the situation?"

"You don't tell me what to do, Barnes." 

He received a death glare from the man. Slightly — almost imperceptibly — he flinched back, his body tensed. Steve noticed. 

"Tony," the blonde rebuked the very next instant, "don't take your anger out on him. He just wants to help, as we all do — you know that."

A snigger answered them. "Yeah — as if I needed that! Bucky, you've lighted up my day, thank you so much!"

Despite his teammate's insistent and barbed comments, Bucky decided not to blame him for it. He shared Tony's incomprehension and pain; he was upset by this turn of events, knowing that it was involving Peter, of them all. He was far beyond worried for this kid.

In respectful silence, Bucky gauged Tony's reactions as the man leaned forward on the table, hands flat on the wood, watching the hologram display in front of him for the umpteenth time. Tony's expression changed to something softer, noticeably sad, as Peter's face turned towards the camera enough to be recognized despite his hood. Briefly, it was as if an exchange was taking place as if Stark was communicating with the teenager, trying to figure out what could have happened to drive the boy to do such awful things. 

Once again, the recording ended with Peter pushing the nurse to his death in a surge of fear and anger. A thud echoed through the room as the man's skull slammed into the wall on the impact moment, and Tony closed his eyes, head bowed and lips pressed together in a thin, shaking line.

"Hey, Barnes, how does it feel, knowing you have a dangerous individual within your team? Huh? For my part, it's starting to be very redundant. Like an old, damn joke."

Steve frowned, unpleased by his friend's words. 

"Tony! Enough, please. This isn't helping."

"Oh, well, Mr. Perfect, excuse me for being too edgy for your greatness! This isn't like I've just witnessed the kid turning into some murderer slash thief! Hell, am I the only one who watched this shit?!"

"We are as upset and confused as you—"

"Yeah? Oh, I bet."

The Avengers' leader sighed eventually. His mind was somewhere else, anyways. Probably with Peter, wondering how the kid was, what had happened to him, or what he was doing now. How did a gentle boy such as Peter, the nicest kid Steve knew, come to find himself buried deep in these dreadful circumstances? 

Biting the inside of his cheeks, the ex-Hydra Soldat exchanged a gaze with his friend, as lost and helpless as he was.

A decision had to be made, nevertheless.

In parallel with Bucky's thoughts, Tony suddenly straightened up and turned firmly on his heel, heading for the exit with a determined pace.

"Tony...?" Steve tempted with hesitation. 

"I'll take care of this. My kid, my responsibility." 

Silence settled over.

**.**

**Peter**

His arms embraced him tightly, strongly grasped around himself like a lifeline, desperate to hold onto something — _anything_ — that could help him keep his feet on the ground long enough not to sink definitively into madness.

Fighting shivers upon shivers, tremors upon tremors, Peter repressed a moan of agony as he leaned back against one of the elevator walls. He could barely look straight ahead considering the beads of sweat concentrated between his lashes; his vision was cloudy and false. Peter saw things that weren't there — distortions of the sight, for the most part. He heard incoherent things — mostly buzzings and hums. And, sometimes, when his condition seemed to be at his worst, his skin was strewn with various sensations that drove him crazy, such as tingling, burning, tugs. Maybe it was his exhausted brain, somewhere, trying to distract him with erroneous information, complete fabrications, to keep him from musing too deeply about morphine.

Quivering, almost convulsing, Peter swallowed with difficulty some of the bile that was rising his sore windpipe.

Aunt May had started asking questions earlier in the day. She was just too loud, too intrusive… He remembered shouting back, forcing his way out of the apartment to take the road on his own to the Compound.

His only goal: find the pills.

The teenager had struggled for two days straight, with the ineffective morphine pills before deciding to act. It was just too much. He needed to answer his body's needs. The resistance was toxic.

The infirmary, the infirmary, the infirmary...

Shiver.

Peter licked his lips, one arm still wrapped around his sensitive stomach. His brown eyes shone absently with desire as he already imagined himself greedily swallowing dozens of these miraculous little capsules. He was almost there.

Though, when the elevator doors opened, Peter was taken aback to find that he hadn't arrived in Heaven as he had hoped and dreamed of, but in Hell. In other words, not in the infirmary, but his mentor's private lab.

With Mr. Stark standing in the middle of the room, eyes on him.

They gasped.

"Mr. St—"

" _You._ "

Peter blinked stupidly at that unknown, venom-filled voice as he limped clumsily out of the elevator. F.R.I.D.A.Y. had surely been ordered to take him here anyway, although the young vigilante didn't understand why. He didn't want to. Frustration was already present in him, driven by his indecent need for a painkiller.

A muscle twitches in his mentor's jaw. "He's with me. I'll call you back."

Before the voice on the other end of the line could answer, the man had already hung up, walking towards his protégé with big, threatening steps. Peter stumbled backwards without thinking until his back banged against the now-closed elevator's doors.

"W-what's going on?" he whined weakly, his eyes already on the floor, unable to stand Tony's vivid energy.

Tony stopped only inches from his face, all respect for personal space forgotten. This unusual behaviour bothered the teenager who on the one hand could not decipher it, and on the other made him uncomfortable. What if Tony found out about something? What if he prevented him from relieving his pain? A gasp of fear escaped him and then his mentor began to sniff audibly, leaning even closer to feel him shamelessly. He seemed to be looking for something. Peter winced and leaned more against the doors, shifting slightly on his feet, unsure.

"Er, what a-are you d-doing...? Co-come on, man... let me be... s-sto-stop..."

With a frail and uncertain hand, he tried to push the Avenger away, however, that only gave the mentioned something to grab the younger and pull him through the lab towards the central desk. Peter let out a confused squeak, showing signs of a fight that proved to be futile against Tony's surprising strength — the grasp was painful. "Hey! Let go, let me go!" he cried out. "Why’re you d-doing this?!"

His objections died halfway in his throat as he was pushed down on the wheelie chair. Reflexively, he clung to the armrests, digging his back into the backrest's leather to get as far away from Tony as possible. The man did not inspire confidence in him now. His gaze was terrifying.

"Funny to see you here, squirt."

The irony in his voice made Peter nauseous.

"As luck would have it, I was about to pick you up. You know, drag your carcass here by the scruff of the neck, and have a little chat with my favourite spider."

Without warning, he firmly pulled up one of Peter's sleeves.

This time, Peter got animated with a stir of anger and retaliated by bringing his arm curtly against him, glaring at Tony. It was out of the question to let anyone walk over him. Especially Tony.

_"Don't touch me."_

His words didn't seem to impact the engineer.

Slowly, similar to the behaviour of a predator trapping his cornered prey, Tony leaned forward to align his eyes with the teenager's, his posture leaving no room for negotiation or discussion. At this point, Peter didn't need Scott Lang's suit to feel as small as an ant; the aura of his mentor alone was quite overwhelming.

"I advise you to listen very carefully here, Peter. It's either you let me do what I have to do, or, I _swear_ , I'll call my suits right away to give me a hand, capiche?"

Peter swallowed, shifting uncomfortably on the chair, barely daring to support the visual exchange between him and Tony. Realizing that a response was expected, the vigilante nodded quickly, his breath blocked in his lungs with apprehension. Then, without waiting any longer, Tony grabbed his wrist and began his inspection.

As he held his arm with a solid grip, the other scanned his sweaty skin, seeming to be looking for something in particular. His fingertips brushing the forearm, lingering over the area in the crook of the elbow, where Peter could feel his veins throb and catch fire just below, craving morphine eagerly. Before the teenager could do or say anything, his mentor was already on his other arm on which he repeated the same approach as the first, still as meticulous in his movements.

Feeling both scared and intimidated, Peter spat out a quip in a poor attempt to compete with Tony's dominant energy. "Are you done groping me, you pervy old man?" 

The concerned did not flinch.

"F.R.I.', temperature?"

" _Mini Boss's temperature is currently at 102.3 degrees Fahrenheit_."

Peter frowned, unsettled by the analysis of the A.I.. Since when did he have a fever? And why?

He groaned as Tony used his fingers to open his tired eyelids wide.

"Hey."

A snap near his ear.

"Follow my finger."

A task he tried to accomplish... However, the young teen gave up after a few seconds only, rubbing his fists against his eyes in a symphony of moans and groans. Christ, he wanted to throw up. Everything was so bright, loud, and fast around him. He didn't understand.

He needed medicine.

Thrill.

Instinctively, Peter tried to stand. A hand on his shoulder pushed him back into his seat. "Nah-ah! You're perfect where you are. Don't move."

The man moved around him, making him painfully giddy. Not paying attention to it was impossible for his heightened senses.

"Eyes up," Tony ordered.

It was ridiculous, Peter thought, glaring at the man. He was wasting his time. If he had come all this way, it was for one reason only; to relieve his pain. Tony was only stepping it up. Why was he against him in the first place? He hadn't done anything wrong.

Eventually, Tony did some manipulations on his Stark Pad and a small hologram spontaneously projected above the phone, displaying a recording.

Peter's boiling blood metamorphosed into ice within his veins.

Effortlessly, he recognized it. He knew.

His memory replayed everything much better than the hologram in his head.

The hospital, first. Then, the man.

God, the man...

Although distant, he heard Tony snort disdainfully. Maybe he was gauging his reactions. And if it was the case, then the teenager's alarming paleness surely hasn't escaped him. Peter felt like he was about to faint, only to be called back on Earth by a wave of sharp, sour nausea which made him clasp a hand to his mouth, hoping he wouldn't vomit on himself or Tony's shoes. The silence was cruel. Purposely lingering it, as if to let Peter torture himself with his thoughts. 

"That's you, right?" 

Peter hated how much it looked like the day he met the man.

Like that day, Tony already had the answer.

And Peter felt just as vulnerable. With no option to escape the situation he was facing. Without any weapon to fight. Just the truth.

Yet, even if he had guessed that Tony already knew, he was conscious enough to witness how the older man's face crumpled right in front of him. Briefly, he was afraid to see him collapse — it was as if his heart had stopped, and then started racing again with a crazy pace. But the most striking detail was undoubtedly the horror reflecting in Tony's brown irises, mixed with confusion and deep sadness.

"Oh, God... no, kid... no..." The engineer realized slowly as he took a small step back, stumbling under the weight of shock.

Peter didn't fight the need to justify himself to Tony.

Maybe he would understand...

"He-he was in my way!"

Tony parted his lips, though no sound came out. His face was now ashen with an unknown emotion. Peter pursued, desperate to make himself understood - and forgiven.

"I was... I was in a good place, sir, I... I was fine, almost fine... It was just..."

He sighed in frustration at the words that were tangling on his tongue.

"The pills... I-I... Need-I... I was there, and he was against me, sir... He attacked me! See!?"

In the recording, the man could be seen reaching out his hand towards the teen, trying to stop him from making a terrible mistake. The next instant, he is thrown with inhuman violence against the opposite wall.

"See? He d-didn't understand... I couldn't let him stop me. B-But I didn't mean to hurt him, I swear it Mr. Stark..."

Mentioning morphine awoke a familiar hunger in his body. It was growling in a corner of his mind, consuming his thoughts. Impossible to get rid of it, like the phantom pain in his leg. Peter tried to hold on a little longer, still hoping that the man would understand how badly he needed to get to the hospital wing to give his system what he wanted.

But when no response or reaction came, panic arose inside of the younger.

"Mr. Sta—"

"Don't talk!"

He jumped at the sudden burst.

"Just... don't talk, kid."

From his position, he could hear the mechanic's wheezed breathing. Peter heard his lungs screaming in pain from the irregular air intake. However, he decided to remain still, too confused and uncertain to help Tony.

"Fucking Hell, kid, you…" The man leaned forward to catch his breath, both hands pressed to his knees - the Stark Pad was abandoned and broken on the ground.

"Mr. Stark...? What's going o—"

"NO!"

"Why are you yelling at me?!"

There was no sense of the matter. Peter no longer understood anything; he didn't even know why the tears were cascading down his cheeks. Was it because of his need for painkillers, or was it because he was afraid of Tony? Or, maybe, to what was happening to the man he considered as his father? Tony's breathing seemed to get worse by the minute, turning dangerously laborious as he put his hands into his usually meticulously combed hair.

"Damn, kid, you...? You did _that_?"

His voice was weak, shaking. It was not his mentor's. Peter frowned.

"Please, tell me you didn’t kill this guy for some... magical candies?"

He wanted to throw up.

"Tell me you didn’t kill this guy just because he was in your way."

He was going to throw up.

"Tell me it wasn't you who killed an innocent man."

The loud _crack_ of the man's skull hitting the wall haunted Peter abruptly — the image of blood, of death.

Rising hastily, the teenager barely caught up at the desk when dizziness clouded his vision. He heard Tony speak near to him, though Peter was too busy pushing all those horrible memories out of his head. Because they weren't memories. It was a nightmare. It was a lie. Spider-Man didn't kill, he had never killed. It was a lie.

To hurt him. To punish him.

"Peter—"

"Don't touch me!" He stepped back furiously, now sharing with Mr. Stark the feeling of his breath trapped in his chest as he tried to find his way to the exit.

Everything was getting blurry. Frightfully fuzzy.

His memories, his thoughts, his vision, his beliefs, his senses... he screamed.

_Make it stop. Please._

He didn't want to suffer again, he couldn't take it anymore. It was too much for him. He didn't want to get hurt. No more pain, no more pain, no more pain...

A hand made its way to his shoulder.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!"

_Don't hurt me._

_crack_.

And nothing more.

Peter opened his eyes, trembling, lost, scared, and nothing.

At first, he struggled to accept this peace. He didn't notice what had changed around him, why time seemed to stand still. He turned his head around him to observe his surroundings, and his gaze stopped on a form at the other end of the lab, motionless and silent on the floor against a wall.

The pain was just the beginning.

And as he crawled toward Tony's limp body, Peter could feel his heart tighten excruciatingly behind his rib cage.

Tony.

Behind the curtain of tears, seeing had become impossible, yet the blood escaping Tony's head was as visible as a beacon in the middle of the night. Realizing with dread that 'blood' and 'Tony' were two words in one single sentence, Peter began to sob in distress, nudging the man's shoulder and arm to wake him up, or at least elicit a reaction. Any sign to cling at, hoping that the irreparable wasn't already done. Hope was all he had left.

"Please, please Mr. Stark... I'm so sorry..."

As gently and carefully as the panic allowed him to do, Peter rolled Tony's unconscious body so that the Avenger was now laying on his back. He gasped in surprise when he saw the left side of his face coloured with blood. It was a nightmarish sight.

"I didn't mean to... please, pl-please... wake up!"

Never in his short life had Peter prayed so much. Whether it's for his mentor to be spared, or whether to wake up. Since, maybe, somehow, he was stuck in a dream he couldn't extricate himself from — not until he had truly suffered, or had lost his mind.

Peter tenderly caressed Tony's hair. His body was still hot; a soothing warmth emanated from it. It made Peter want to lie there, just beside the engineer, and not move until he was sure everything was going to be okay. He needed to know Tony was fine. His fingers twitched amidst his mentor's brown locks as another type of need twinged at his guts. Peter moaned in discomfort as fresh tears streamed down his face.

Morphine.

Guided by this enslaving need, the vigilante got to his feet after one last look at Tony. "I'm sorry..."

The sight of blood staining the perfectly immaculate ground was now etched forever in his memory. He knew it. He deserved it.

Ignoring the alarmed instructions of F.R.I.D.A.Y. to apply first aid to Tony, Peter fled away from the Compound. He wasn't supposed to cross anyone's path — it was only a matter of minutes before the Avengers burst all into the lab to help their friend. If they got their hands on him, then he would never have the opportunity to get morphine again. He would be deprived of it. They would punish him with that. Peter knew it. They were all against him.

He was alone.

The only thing that could bring some peace to his miserable life was some morphine.

"Peter, baby, where were you...?" May urged when he eventually came home. She noticed his pallor. "What is it? What happened? Baby, talk to me—"

He pushed her out of his way to take refuge in his room, his safe bubble, unresponsive to her calls and tears when she drummed desperately at his door. Everything was... surreal. Why try to understand, knowing that he never could? It was a fact now. He no longer understood anything. He was lost.

The flight remained the best solution once again, which is why Peter escaped the apartment through his bedroom window, swinging as far as he could to escape this madness. 

He tried to convince himself that it was for the sake of May, his precious friends, everyone, but the truth was more bitter.

Peter was afraid.

He was too scared to face the consequences of his actions.

So he vanished away, far from home.

**.**

**Tony**

A silence was weighing in the room, uncomfortable and heavy.

It was periodically cut off by sobs coming from the phone on the coffee table, which was put on speaker.

No one dared to speak.

They were all too discouraged for that. Shoulders slumped, gaze down. The confusion was general. And this time even Tony had nothing to say. No remarks, no jokes, or anything.

He flinched as he passed his hand over the bandage that covered his sutured wound on the left side of his head. Seven stitches in total, most of them hidden by his dark hair. Bruce had told him he had been lucky.

Peter could have killed him if he had wanted to.

However, this was only the result of a panic attack. Normal and expected symptoms from drug addiction, he thought bitterly.

Natasha was the first to find him there, lying inert in his lab — he had regained consciousness as she was applying pressure on his oozing wound. Then Bruce had arrived, followed by the others.

Peter was nowhere to be found, after this... incident.

Faded away. Volatilized.

Tony hadn't yet finished getting stitched up in the infirmary that he had already tried to take one suit to go looking for his dumb kid.

" _That's my fault..._ " He remembered Bruce's words, haunted with guilt. " _I initiated this... I should have checked on him..._ "

It was at this moment he had learned about what had happened between Banner and the kid after the mission in Sweden. His visit to the man, Captain's painkillers, and the deductible outcome given recent events, a budding addiction.

Tony sighed deeply, ignoring the worried looks the other Avengers had on him. He should have known. He should have seen it. A fucking drug addiction... He knew what it was, hell. It was a familiar adventure for him. A path already taken, once. So why couldn't he have noticed the first signs when Peter was clearly in pain? Bruce had reassured him as much as Tony had done with him back in the medical wing, but nothing could have changed their minds; they both had responsibilities for the previous events.

Tony more than anyone.

Peter was a good kid, with guts and heart. Though, he needed to be supported too, because one day, he would be able to surpass the Avengers. His future was promising. Brilliant. And Tony had to make sure it stayed that way, until his last breath. It was his role as a mentor.

This role, he was going to fulfil it.

"I... I don't understand..." May hiccuped from the other side of the line, her voice broken, charged with emotions. "He's my baby. Peter's so sweet, so, so gentle... that doesn't make sense... He... Oh, Jesus... That wasn't him... that isn’t the boy I know, Tony. You should have seen his face, his eyes..." She sniffed a few times. "I didn't recognise him. My kid. He was... a ghost."

_Yeah, I know..._

"I'm scared. What if he gets hurt?" 

A gasp echoed her words as if she was imagining her theory. "And if he dies? God, no, n-no... I can't, I—"

As she choked on her sobs, Steve decided to speak up. "Ma'am, please, you have to calm down. I know it's hard. You're scared for him, and so I am. We all are. Peter is an incredible kid, and we will do our best to find him and help him. He's one of us. "

Tony closed his eyes.

"May, you know what I have to do. Peter or not, he's still Spider-Man. He might hurt people, or get caught. I have to do something. I need your green light, though."

There was a short pause that kept the suspense going for long seconds before May spoke again in a voice both fearful and confident: "Do it. Do whatever you need to save my baby."

**.**


	5. To Catch a Spider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys !  
> It’s been a long time, I know, but here the chapter 5 ! A piece of my soul is within it, trust me. 
> 
> Initially, the other avengers weren’t supposed to be this involved into my work. Though, I took into account some comments, and, thus, decided to give them a role a little bit more important. Why not, after all? I think it brings something. And I absolutely enjoyed writting them as well, even though this fiction remains a Tony & Peter centric.
> 
> A big thanks to my beta, alifetime :)

****

**Peter**

"Hey! You damn little punk! Come back!" a man cursed as Peter was bustling with building distance between himself and the drugstore he had just stolen from.

Despite the miserable state of his damaged and tired body, the teenager managed to outrun the salesman who continued to bellow insults across the street. If each step inflicted excruciating pain in his leg, that didn't stop him from running until he found a way out, even if it meant pushing aside everyone in front of him and forcing his way through the crowd.

He couldn't let himself get caught.

The darkness was slowly reaching its climax when Peter finally found refuge in his makeshift hideout. It was an abandoned janitor's lodge in the deserted underground parking lot of an old grocery store, and although it was not the ideal place, in default to offer him comfort, it offered him moments of respite where he could gather his thoughts and catch his breath. Which, in his condition, was all he could hope for.

Exhaling slowly, Peter took care to close the wooden door behind him. The action gave him the illusion of creating privacy, although the large window in the wall facing the parking lot was nowhere to be seen, actually completely shattered. This place was a ruin; paint on the ceiling and walls were peeling, while spider webs decorated every corner of the room. However, Peter knew he couldn't afford to be precious. Besides, his mind had other things to linger on, like the stinging pain in his leg, or the constant nausea that haunted him.

The teen swallowed his pain as he limped to the shabby desk; the chair squeaked so loudly that he wondered for a moment if the wood would collapse under his weight. But in the end he was more absorbed by the creek that echoed alarmingly between the walls of the underground parking lot than by the state of his seat.

Being noticed wasn't an option as a fugitive.

Peter tensed for a second, a hand on his chest in a futile attempt to calm the frantic beating of his heart, as he made sure no one was coming, ready to attack, or to drag him out of hiding. After what seemed like an eternal minute, he allowed himself to relax and relish the safety. It had been a hard day. And his body was not getting any better. His body was still cadging for what it needed.

Without delay, the young vigilante pulled out of his pockets the various items he had stolen from the drugstore. It wasn't much, nothing that could satisfy him fully, but it could at least contribute to making his suffering less overwhelming.

On the desk was a plastic bag he had left there earlier. That was all he had gotten from the nocturnal break at his school last night after his run-in with Tony.

He blamed himself for his actions. For thefts, all this violence... but it was necessary. These were sacrifices required if he wanted to achieve his ends.

The school could pay back itself what the storages were in lack of.

Tony… well, Tony was _Iron Man_.

He would be fine.

Peter hastily shook the thought of the man out of his head, getting rid of any remorse so that he could fully focus on all the collected items and tools scattered on the desk. Analgesics, chemicals, beakers, a syringe… Patiently, he made a mental list on how to proceed, the protocols, and the steps needed to synthesize his own painkiller. Though, the more he was thinking, the more his thoughts blended together until they became meaningless. He tried to insist, to resist the throbbing headache, but quickly got overloaded by a wave of nausea.

He leaned back, retaining a retching, and the chair creaked again.

The sound resonated. For a long time.

At first, it was as if the creek prolonged, amplifying until every hair on the teenager's body had stood up against the distorted echo.

The silence that followed was almost worse. Peter was still alone with a body that was turning more and more unfamiliar to him, incoherent thoughts, and a growing apprehension of his surroundings. Cornered in this lodge, he was vulnerable.

His gaze scanned the area through the space in the wall, where a bay probably once had been, and nothing unusual caught his attention. It was still the same isolated and empty parking lot, except for a forgotten car, eaten by rust, with three tires missing. He was still alone. Safe.

A neon light flickered somewhere, which brought Peter out of his observant trance.

With trembling hands, he began his experiment. His foggy mind didn't make the task easy for him, unlike the pain that constantly reminded him of its presence to motivate him to work faster and harder. His body kept crying out for its due. Tirelessly. The teenager wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve to chase away all that sweat that blinded him. Beads were accumulating on his face, making him feel like he was crushed under an imaginary weight that he had to keep lifting for his survival. It was the lack.

Making webs was one thing. Making a derivative of morphine was another.

But chemistry was still chemistry. Here, his tortured brain was the only downside to the equation. He knew deep down that the result could be absolutely exceptional if only he could manage to concentrate.

“Come on… come on…” he moaned when his shaking hands made him miss the dosage of opium extract a second time — it was just as if he could hold the flask without dropping it.

It was insane. There was no guarantee that he was not making the poison that would end his miserable existence. However, there was no guarantee he was making a mistake either. Even if he rushed headlong into his decisions, it was a risk he gladly took. Peter was ready to do anything to end this nightmare. If he couldn't have these pills, then he would have a homemade alternative, whatever it was. He could do it.

And when eventually his syringe was loaded with a colorless solution just gathered from his efforts and willpower, Peter felt his eyes shine with envy and admiration.

He had succeeded in making something.

Everything he had done was not in vain. He had been able to get what he wanted. He had something to relieve himself of.

"I made it..."

Suddenly, as he shifted on his chair to contemplate his achievement, the wood screeched again. Similar to a deflagration, this creaking sounded in a curt, dull crash, and rang for a long time between the walls of the parking lot. Peter stiffened, both surprised and shocked at the astonishing din from his seat. He swallowed, unsure of himself, when the automatic lights went out without a preamble. All of them, except the light bulb which hung from the ceiling of the lodge.

Astonishment was followed by a growing apprehension lurking in his heart.

Peter realized that the entire parking lot was from now on in total obscurity; passed the space with the glass missing from the wall of the room he was holed up in, it was impossible for him to discern any shape.

The echo kept going. Though, instead of remaining a high pitched, strident screeching, it began to twist, to extend in a drawling rumble. It was the only sound that broke the quietude of the hissing wind that infiltrated into the underground space. And as the seconds, the minutes went by, Peter couldn't look away from the darkness in front of him. He feared that a blink of an eyelid might be enough to give someone the time and opportunity to hurt him. He was too scared to allow himself to ignore the dismal buzz that was eating away his sanity. In a desperate measure he tried to focus on the cadence of his heartbeats which were far too distinct for his sensitive ears, but, added to the hubbub of lingering dissonance, it quickly became deafening.

The chattering of his teeth knocking together was an addition to the symphony, bringing a new element to the distress of the teenager, whose confusion grew exponentially. He was still staring at the darkness, deeply convinced that something would come after him if he let his guard down. All his senses were on alert.

Sweat flowed down his neck and back as he tried to overcome his anguish - his entire body was paralyzed in horror. It wasn’t the best case scenario for getting away. He knew he was in a weak position. He knew he was cornered. He knew he was at the mercy of others. Alone.

Danger was everywhere around him. His senses screamed at him to run away, run away, run away… to ignore the deafening grindings that surrounded him, attacking him, and just running far, far away.

And when he wanted to convince himself that his brain was just a victim of paranoia, Peter distinguished a hand that emerged from the darkness, right in front of him, and reached out in his direction to grab him. Air turned freezing cold.

He yelled. 

Pins and needle sensations stinging in his legs and fingers accompanied a powerful bout of heat as he threw himself to the side to escape the hand. The teenager collided loudly against the concrete floor, and began to crawl unhesitatingly into a corner, pushing himself backward with his heels. His ear-splitting shrieks were filling the lodge. He was screaming, while tears flooded his face pale with terror.

For a moment, the young vigilant wondered if he had gone mad when he saw the hand figure — whatever it could be — dancing in the dark, moving inhumanly and regaining its original form without actually penetrating into the room to cross the distance that separated them.

Peter gave in to fear, assailed now by sobs and moans as part of him was resigning to die.

His gaze caught the syringe he still held in his right hand. He was surprised the glass hadn't shattered with the stronghold he was exerting on it. Though, rather than staying focused on the monster in the darkness who wanted to harm him, Peter made the decision to accord himself one last moment of pleasure. In fact, he acted more automatically than by reflection. It was as if instinct had taken over his sanity. His movements were mechanical as he rolled up the left sleeve of his top. And despite his narrowed and parasites with black spots vision, he strangely had no difficulty sticking the needle right into the crook of his elbow and injecting the drug.

Peter sighed at the sensation, momentarily closing his eyes. He disregarded the sinister echoes around him, his broken leg, and the sting that pierced his flesh. For a second, he froze and held the air in his lungs.

Then…

A first spasm shook his body.

The syringe crashed to the ground, as his eyes rolled back under the imminent effect of the drug that set his veins on fire.

Second spasm.

He sagged to the ground, shaking, trembling with pleasure and delight, beset with this new sensation which would prove to be a thousand times more exquisite, more divine than anything Peter had tasted to this day.

Another spasm. Followed by another.

He was aware he was grinning stupidly whilst his body convulsed in ecstasy, soothed by that strange euphoria. His entire being was hypnotized by the unexpected pleasure, by the wave of relief that veiled his thoughts as he forgot the very definition of pain and fear.

The light from the swinging bulb was brighter than ever above him. Like a lighthouse in the night, like a sun that dazzled him with a thousand sparkles. The darkness no longer existed. There were only formed spots, and colors circling indefinitely all around him. Peter laughed furiously, unable to control himself. It was hilarious. Pleasant.

He felt so good.

**.**

**General**

Despite all the tension in the atmosphere, the silence was frequently interrupted by Clint's snickers, who was slumped on the sofa in the communal room, one leg over the leather armrest. He was holding an arrow between his hands, the point of which he used absentmindedly to scrape clean his fingernails, regardless of Steve's disgusted and scolding gaze.

"Frankly, Sam, what were you thinking? I mean…'' He caught his breath between giggles. "You versus Spider-Baby? Let's face it: you didn't stand a chance. There were more probabilities of seeing angels falling from the sky or a cactus coming out of your ass than winning against him.''

Sam groaned something between his teeth as Natasha continued to press an ice pack against his swollen cheekbone.

“What was that?” Clint chuckled, tapping his own ear.

“Fuck youuuu…” Sam huffed in exasperation, raising his middle finger in Hawkeye's direction when the concerned burst into another burst of laughter.

Meanwhile, sitting on the opposite side of the couch, Bucky curiously watched the exchange between the two men. However, he preferred to remain silent to deal with his own thoughts, and muse by himself on what had happened earlier in the day. Nothing very glorious, unfortunately. His gaze lingered on Tony for a minute. Although the evening was already well advanced and everyone secretly dreamed of a long night's sleep, the billionaire seemed on edge and kept pacing the room.

"Hey, tin can, would you sit? You're going to set the carpet on fire," The archer commented in a milder tone, though Tony showed no sign of paying attention or conceding to the discussion.

Instead, he finally made a sharp gesture with his arm to point at the Avengers, in order to lump them together, subject to the same accusation. "I still fucking can’t believe it! How did you lose him?! He is a kid! A brainless, junky, stupide brat! He was given to you on a silver platter, and you still managed to fuck up your job ?! Ah, dammit."

"An enhanced kid, Tony. Addicted to drugs or not, Peter's still remarkably smart." Natasha corrected him with a disapproving look.

"No. No, I'm sorry, but the kid is totally dazed, he doesn't think of anything else other than what brings him in such a state in the first place. A smart person on the run would have thought of getting rid of their phone before getting caught." The man massaged his bandaged forehead with the palm of his hand, wincing as he brushed over the sutures. “It was a golden opportunity… You could have taken him home.”

“Tony…” Steve tried to reason with him, but his words were dismissed by another wave of the hand from the engineer.

"He could have been home right now! He could have been safe with us! Now, because of your freaking incompetence, I have to tell a sick worried woman that her drugged nephew just spent another day alone in the streets!"

Subsequent to his words, Tony headed to the bar to pour himself a glass of Scotch. No one stopped him. Everyone was dealing with the discomfort in their own way. For most of them it was a matter of shifting nervously, looking at the ground.

“Why?” The billionaire whispered, his back to his comrades.

Silence was an answer. So, he reiterated, this time turning to the others with a look which was both furious and imploring.

" _Why!?_ "

Clint kept a neutral expression, in default of not having any more improvised jokes. He and Steve hadn't been part of the team that earlier today had tried to find Peter; they had instead been tasked with sorting out the situation between S.H.I.E.L.D. and Spider-Man. As for Tony and Bruce, they had been judged too unstable — given their closeness to the teenager — to be able to participate in any way, thus both of them had been holed up in their respective labs to mope.

Natasha cleared her throat for attention.

"I hesitated."

Sam, sat next to her on the floor around the coffee table, bowed his head in a defeated way, visibly affected and distressed by her words. He replayed the course of the day in his mind, imagining endless possibilities of various scenarios where they wouldn't have failed in their mission.

"I hesitated, too." Bucky took part to relieve Natasha from Tony's heavy gaze. "Because it was Peter."

"Because it was Peter…" Tony repeated, numb, before his whole face reddened up with sudden anger. "It was because it was about Peter that you should have made it!"

“Tony!” Sam called out. "We did our best and you know it! No matter how much you blame us, that won't change anything, except make the situation even more complicated for all of us! We… Hell, we tried. But what do you think? He didn’t come easily. That damn kid... To be honest, I expected no less from him. We knew what his abilities were, Peter is our teammate, but… despite all of this training together, it seems obvious to me that none of the three of us were prepared for such a counterattack on his part. He caught us off guard, and... and it's not like we wanted to hurt him. Although we had the opportunity."

Bucky nodded solemnly at the memory.

**.**

**Eleven hours earlier.**

_Noon was approaching as Peter wandered aimlessly around the city. The hood of his sweatshirt partially covered his face, and hid it from people around him. Though, this shadow of anonymity was not enough to quell the constant worry that haunted him through each step he took, through each decision, through each thought. He doubted everything, and everyone around him, skeptical and nervous as soon as a glance was laid on him or someone brushed past him. The proximity made him sick. He was living with the feeling that everyone knew who he was, and what he had done._

_Worst of all, he believed that, no matter where his legs dragged him, constant danger hovered over him, ready to strike._

_Murmurs of disgust at the teenager rose up as the concerned threw himself on the nearest public trash can to vomit the contents of his stomach. Ignoring the comments was easier than ignoring his degenerating vision that made him feel nauseous and hardly bearable. Peter knew he had to return to the lodge, where he had hidden the materials he had stolen from his school overnight; his condition was getting worse by the minute, and he could barely stand upright without feeling vertiginous sensations, without mentioning the unbearable phantom pain in his leg._

_But as he stumbled clumsily to find his way through a burst of fever, Peter made out a motionless shape in front of him, ten yards away. He stopped, and took the time to analyze._

_The world was moving around him, like the people swarming like ants, all going about their business regardless of their surroundings. But not that person_ — _they were standing perfectly still, staring in his direction._

_The hairs on the back of his neck stood in a flash as he recognized the ginger locks._

_Without thinking, he turned on his heels and tried to walk away._

_But another figure was waiting for him at the other end of the sidewalk. Motionless in a similar fashion. Threatening._

_Danger. Danger. Danger._

_Peter rushed into the first alley he encountered, hoping to escape this new woe. His breath was already starting to quicken and become irregular as the thought of potentially getting stuck popped into his mind. He fought the urge to collapse on the dirty ground and cry his eyes out, favoring the use of the adrenaline that pulsed in his veins and that allowed him to find enough coherence to consider a plan._

_Then a new person appeared at the other exit of the alley, blocking his way._

_Again, he turned, ready to run, ready to run away from danger, but the other two were now at the entrance he came from, trapping him between them and the third accomplice._

_Black Widow and Falcon in front, The Winter Soldier behind._

_Against him._

_Caught flat-footed and panicked, the younger started spinning around in search of a way out. Sam, whose wings were dissimulated under his leather jacket to intercept the teenager if necessary, wondered why Peter hadn't started climbing the walls yet. Wasn't that his odd specialty? An exchange of looks with Natasha and Bucky made him realize that he wasn't the only one who shared the thought._

_“Peter.” Natasha was the first to speak, her voice split between softness and firmness, enough to bring the kid back to reality without intimidating him more than the situation required. When she gained his attention she allowed herself a step forward, though the teenager immediately took two steps back in response. "Hey. Hey you."_

_A lost glare was the only answer she won, yet, she still smiled with experience, her demeanor confident._

_“I'm glad I've found you. We were worried about you."_

_Peter unconsciously shook his head, his hands groping along the brick wall behind him as if he was going to be able to open up and create an imaginary passage that would allow him to escape away from that place._

_“You must be hungry,_ мой паук ребенок _"_

_"N-No! I’m not! I-I- How did-did you find me...?"_

_Natasha noticed that his voice was more shaky and high-pitched than usual._

_“Your phone, sweetheart.”_

_If Peter realized what his mistake had been, it was too late to change anything about it now anyway._

_His muscles were stiff and tense, exhibiting his disposition to retaliate if anything happened, as Sam struck up the conversation in turn. The goal of the trio was primarily to convince Peter to accompany them to the Compound without having to use force. Neither of them wanted to come to blows with the teenager, but it was a possibility that hung nonetheless and of which they were conscious. Peter couldn't be outside alone. It was their mission._

_Viewing those facts as a duty was easier for the three Avengers; it also allowed them to build barriers against emotions that would degrade their abilities and distract them from their goal._

_But now that they were faced with this terrified pair of brown eyes, they knew more than ever that the task would be far from easy._

_Their target was one of them._

_“Peter, we know you're confused, and scared, but you're going to have to give us a chance to help you. We need your compliance," Falcon announced authoritatively, hoping that Peter was still able to make consistent decisions, as long as he was shaken enough._

_"Don't come closer. Stay where you are." The concerned grunted warningly, defensive posture and keen senses._

_"No, it’s_ over _. You've done enough. You have to pull yourself together. I know you can do it."_

_“You don't know anything at all!” Peter snarled, leaning more against the wall. "You know nothing! You don't understand! You- you think you're going to help me, but that's wrong! You do not know! Me, I-I know! I know what I need!'_

_His whole body became rigid as Bucky approached, though Natasha held up a hand to dissuade the ex-soldier._ "паук ребенок… my паук ребенок…" _The feminine contact seemed to help Peter relax, or at least show signs of listening. "You have my word that we only want your good. We're here to help you."_

_"But... but... the morphine..." Peter gasped piteously, tears gathering in his red eyes._

_“You'll have as much as you want.” She smiled warmly, reaching out her hand to the teenager, inviting him to come closer. "Trust us."_

_Peter was split between the urge to collapse into Natasha's arms and cry right there until exhaustion would take him away from this nightmare, and the urge to give in to the paranoia that possessed him a little bit more at every minute. At the gates of psychosis, he no longer knew who to listen to between his friends and his doubts. He was scared beyond the believable._

_Taking advantage of the occasion when the boy seemed assaulted with dizziness, Natasha crossed the distance between them to help Peter stay on his feet. In appearance suspicious and tense, the younger one succumbed to the feeling of comfort that the redhead was bringing him. He felt like it had been ages since the last time he had felt safe. So he closed his eyes, and rested his forehead against Natasha's shoulder as she gently stroked his damp, tangled hair, regardless of all the dirt embedded in it. Here, in such a weak position, neck in evidence, he was unaware of the new exchange of glances between the trio. He didn't see the syringe Bucky sneaked out of his jacket as he got nearer like a predator circling his prey whose fate was ineluctable; Black Widow's trap had closed on him the instant she gained his trust._

_"I know, I know… shhh…" The spy rocked him in her arms, coaxing him further into insouciance._

_"I…" The voice of the young vigilant was so broken and choked that he struggled to utter a few words. He swallowed, and tried again. "I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, guys, I… I’m sorry…"_

_Natasha's expression was steadfast, unlike Sam who felt the urgency to reassure him._

_“Tony doesn’t blame you, you don't need to worry.”_

_Unfortunately, mentioning Tony had been the worst choice; Peter froze, eyes wide as saucers, and Natasha realized it was already too late._

_"Bucky! Gimme the—"_

_Her lungs abruptly exhaled all of their air content as the teenager pushed her violently to the ground. By the time Peter had evaded her grip, Bucky had enough time to leap onto him to grab both of his arms from behind. Sam was going to support the ex-assassin in his initiative when Peter blindly plunged his arms back and grabbed Bucky's shoulders. He then used his enhanced strength to bend forward and throw the man onto Falcon who was still in charge at the time._

_“Goddammit!” Sam barked as he collided with dusty ground, Bucky above him._

_Breath already short, the teenager rushed towards the brick wall in panic and tried to climb. A firm hand, however, grabbed the collar of his sweatshirt and forced him to back up until he lost his balance and fell, his back lying to the ground. Faster than a blink of an eyelid, Natasha was already standing up beside the boy, towering him by all of her height, wrist aimed down in his direction, her Widow Bites charged and ready to launch an electronic charge to neutralize Peter in a single attack. And though her features remained resolute, her face cold and unperturbed as a marble statue, her blue eyes shone, betraying her reluctance to act._

_This ounce of hesitation did not go unnoticed by the teenager._

_It was a second of hesitation too long, since he took the opportunity to give a fierce heel kick in the inner thigh of Natasha who let out a cry of pain, simultaneously bending one knee to avoid the fall._

_"Nat!" Bucky called out as he stood up, swallowing back a curse when he noticed Peter who had already almost reached the top of the adjacent wall._

_“I'll take care of it.” Sam declared, energetically removing his jacket and tossing it casually at his friend, revealing the equipment strapped to his chest._

_Natasha shook her head as Falcon's mechanical wings were unfolding. "Sam, no! He's not in his normal state!” She knew that Peter, unlike his friends, was not going to hesitate to counterattack anymore._

_Ignoring the warning, Sam ascended to the level of Peter who was climbing over the edge of the building to reach the roof; he used his momentum to pin the boy to the ground. Their bodies rolled over the rough surface for several yards, making them both hiss in pain as the gravel scratched their elbows and hands — but despite the pain, Sam didn't give up his hold on the teen, he continued to grasp and block him with an arm lock, hoping to use enough force to deprive the kid of oxygen, without actually hurting him. With his free hand, he searched down in his thigh holster for the anesthetic Bruce had given him._

_Keeping Spider-Man submissive was no small feat. Peter was fighting tooth and nail, screaming in agony, wriggling desperately against his enemy to find a way to escape. The feeling of being cornered was suffocating._

_"Peter! ENOUGH!"_

_When Sam's fingers brushed the syringe, Peter found enough room to send his elbow straight into his comrade's face. This was all it took to allow him to jump up back on his feet afterwards. To his surprise, Sam imitated him, without a second thought for the blood spurting from his nose and split lip._

_“Good hit.” Falcon growled as he staggered, slightly dazed. "I'm sure it was Legolas who taught you that."_

_Peter was no longer in the mood to talk. The time for concessions was over on his side. So he charged without thinking, with one clear objective in mind: to get rid of the inconvenient element._

_The fight had been brief._

_Sam was a good combatant. But not daring to use his weapons for fear of hurting Peter, his lack of strength caught up with him. He could only clench his teeth against the pain and ward off the blows as best he could, relying on his friends to come to his aid._

_Bucky was the first to arrive at the roof. He hurried to put an end to the teenager's persecutions on Falcon whose face was already swollen and oozing blood, grabbing Peter by the wrist and forcing him to stand up. Peter let out a beastly snarl that sure did send a clear message to his assailant. It was neither a game nor an exercise as it used to be._

_Yet. Bucky's reluctance drove him not to obey his original plan which was to throw his metal fist in the kid's jaw. He had thought he was ready, he had believed he had succeeded in convincing himself, but the mere fact of meeting the gaze of his young friend, filled with distress and confusion, and above all with fear, was enough to petrify him at that moment. And as with Natasha, Peter didn't share the same hesitation against him. His knuckles slammed into Bucky's throat, afflicting the man immediately with an uncontrollable coughing fit._

_"Kid, no!" Sam shouted out to Peter as he was about to run away to another rooftop._

_Though, this time, the teenager didn't even turn around. He continued to run, with the sole desire to put as much distance as possible between himself and his teammates. Just before hopping onto another building and using his webs, Peter dropped his phone._

_Sam huffed in rage, resting his head on the ground, as Bucky massaged his aching throat while he stared at Peter who headed away without much consideration for them. Then, taking a deep breath, he yelled for Spider-Man's attention, "We've got what you need at Compound! You won't find it anywhere else!"_

_No answer._

_It was a failure._

_"PETER!"_

**.**

**Present**

No one had wanted to hurt this kid. The three of them had had the chance — the duty — but none of them had had the guts. Until now, whether it was Natasha, Sam, or Bucky, they couldn't have said if they regretted their decisions. A ticket to the past to offer them a second chance would not guarantee them that their weakness would not resurface again to alter their abilities.

Tony sighed softly, tired and defeated. He had stopped pacing, but his mind was still tortured and confused by the tenure of events. He would have liked to do as Bruce and lock himself in his lab just for the pleasure to be alone.

"Listen…" Bucky started an approach, one hand still massaging the blued flesh of his throat.

“Shut up,” The billionaire snapped with no latency.

Automatically Steve scolded him. "Tony!"

Clint didn't comment on the comedic aspect of the situation, he was still staring at the arrow in his hands.

"Tony, listen. Please." Bucky insisted as his comrade nervously sipped his drink. “I... I told him we still have some. Pills."

At his words the engineer's eyes lit up with interest, as if the flame of hope had just been rekindled in him, to come to life again.

"I know he heard me... and maybe that would give us hope that he might eventually take the risk of coming here, out of desperation?"

All eyes turned to Tony, curious to know what his opinion was going to be on this theory. The man, meanwhile, seemed to integrate Bucky's words before turning around and slowly walking towards the floor-to-ceiling window. The silence that followed was heavy. Less than the one that weighed a few minutes back, but still unpleasant. Tony mumbled for himself, thinking about the conversation he had had with May, the indirect promise he had made to her about bringing Peter back home. A promise he intended to keep no matter how. It didn't matter what it would take. For Peter, he was ready for anything.

"Of course he'll come."

A smile stretched his lips.

“We have what he wants. Peter _will_ come and get what he's in need of. "

**.**

**Peter**

Throughout his journey, Peter remembered wondering about the limits of the human body.

What were these limits? What could he take? How much pain could he take before he broke, both mentally and physically?

As Spider-Man, he knew he was endowed with extraordinary resistance. His body was not like other people's, it did not share the same restraints. Peter could take more, and longer than anyone.

He was very strong.

Extremely strong.

With those words, he made it into a mantra he repeated over and over as moral support while he made the way to the Compound. While every step had been torture. While every minute without morphine in his veins had been hellish torment.

The pain was deserved. It was his punishment for all these crimes he had committed.

By the time he woke up from the first dose of the analgesic he had synthesized, the sun had already been high in the sky and he had already sensed the need. Unsurprisingly, there wasn't much left of what he stole to conceive a second dose. Peter had swallowed some painkillers, which had only the merit of putting something in his stomach. And although he was aware of his body begging him for real food, he couldn't bring himself to divert his attention from his primary need: morphine.

It was wanted more than anything. More vital than air, than water, or sleep.

It had priority before anything else.

The thought of getting some, of finding the pills he craved so much, had been what gave him the strength to get up and go all this way through all those long, grueling hours.

It was then that he wondered what the limits of his body were.

He wasn't humanly supposed to be able to keep walking, not like this. Not with a broken leg. Not with an exhausted organism. Not with a brain corrupted by drugs. Peter no longer recognized himself anymore. It was as if nothing about him belonged to him anymore, as if everything was acting only through a destructive instinct. And it was a scary thing, to feel enslaved by his own body.

The teenager didn't have the presence of mind to question himself when he entered the compound without passing anyone to intercept him.

It was dark. Everyone was asleep, he guessed as he climbed the windows of the huge building.

All the lights were out, except the night lights that led to the road and the great hall. However, at this hour, no one was present.

On his way to the infirmary, F.R.I.D.A.Y. greeted him happily. He didn't answer. Truth be told, the closer he got to his goal, the weaker his reflexion turned. One goal, one thought, one path.

The pills.

That was all that mattered.

That was all he needed to save him, to relieve him. He needed it.

Wiping the sweat from his eyelashes with his shaking hands, Peter started to move Heaven and Earth in the room as soon as he entered the hospital wing. Regardless of the din he was causing, or the mess he was making, he would just overturn the drawers and empty the shelves one after the other, blindly obeying the spasms of envy that kept constricting his stomach endlessly in a dizzying impulse of nausea and languor.

The minutes passed, and frustration grew when he failed to get his hand on Steve's medicine. Tears of rage were already burning in his eyes as he tore pillowcases from every bed that crossed his path. Maybe it was hidden inside of them? The pills were so precious… they had to be kept secret. Peter understood. But he hated the idea of having to wait a single second more, away from happiness, far from ecstasy, far from—

"Pete."

Time froze.

His limbs, his breath, and every cell in his body — _everything;_ his whole being had stiffened. His whole world had just been suspended.

It only lasted a split second.

During that brief moment, the teenager felt a hint of hope surging through his system, making him for the first time in several weeks feel like he was alive. Because, in that unfairly short moment, he was no longer just a young criminal craving drugs, willing to do something irreparable to get his way, but Peter. For a second, he regained his humanity.

He turned back to the source of the voice in a sharp movement that was meant to be threatening, but more than anything else denounced the arousal of his nervousness. His hands were still trembling so he closed them in a fist to hide his vulnerability.

However, nothing could have prevented him from physically staggering when he recognized the familiar face of his mentor, who stood leaning against the doorframe across the room, arms folded over his chest and mouth twisted disapprovingly in a silent reproach. If at first he had thought of a possible new hallucination that had arisen in a moment of weakness to manhandle him in the same way as the night before he had been locked in the lodge room, Peter could no longer be mistaken. Not when he could hear the man's heart beat, as an indisputable proof that he was alive.

"Mr. Stark.” The boy breathed out bewilderedly, his glazed eyes fixed upon his interlocutor as if he was an alien.

He found it hard to accept what he was seeing. To understand what he felt between relief, guilt, fear, and apprehension. The mix was noxious, and hardly bearable in his state.

“That must be me.” Tony snorted, not moving an iota. His expression only tended to shift from firmness to softness.

"Mr. Stark..." Peter repeated, choking himself on a wet sob.

It was as though the teenager had thoroughly avoided him for the past two days, since the night his confused mind had made him lash out at his mentor, but now that he was confronted with it Peter couldn't look at something other than the bandage wrapped tightly around the man's head. A brief memory came to torment him, a bloody flash filled with guilt. Peter took a step forward without realizing it. Part of him wanted to create proximity with Tony. Hell, he wanted to hold him in his arms and make sure he was real, to assure himself he hadn't really done the irreparable. He wanted to apologize for everything. And, more than anything, he wanted to feel alive. A consideration. A hug. A hand in the hair. It didn't matter. His pleasure in reuniting with Tony was rivaling his need for morphine, even though it wouldn't last forever.

"I'm not really surprised. Actually, it was downright expected to see you crawling back here."

Peter frowned, shifting awkwardly in place.

“I mean… it was predictable. You're a smart kid, but drugs are drugs. Your brain is too dazed by this poison to think properly about the dangers and consequences.''

_What did that mean? What the hell did that mean?!_

"Don't take it the wrong way, but you couldn't have lasted long outside anyway. Steve was covering your ass with S.H.I.E.L.D. to give you a window of peace while we went the gentle way, but, again, it couldn't have lasted. You know Fury, don't you? Always with a stick up in the ass... Anyways, better late than Fury to decide to take care of it. You wouldn't have liked that."

Peter's hairs stood when he could finally get an interpretation of his mentor's words; he was being threatened.

Hissing, he took a wide step back as if that was what could protect him from Iron Man.

Tony's shoulders slumped down slightly. “Hey… it's okay, Underoos.”

"It is not! You're like the others! You are against me! I know it, I know it! You understand nothing!"

A glimmer of sadness lit the engineer's tired gaze. "Yes... yes I do."

With this, he pulled out a small blue box from his pocket.

The same box Bruce had used.

Tony shook his hand; the pills inside made a loud clicking sound.

Instantly, Peter felt his salivary glands activate. Automatically, he stretched a hand forward, even though he was too far away to reach the object of his covetousness. Instinctively, he walked forward.

His cheeks were already wet with tears, warmed by a blush of powerful various emotions. He could barely believe what he was seeing. It was too good, too resplendent to be true. Yet, Peter continued to move closer to Tony, oblivious to his body acting on its own, subject to his impulses, this primary and uncontrollable urge for morphine.

"Mr. Stark… Mr. Stark…" he gasped, still completely dumbfounded by the offering.

Tony was helping him.

Tony was giving him what he needed.

He was curing all his ailments.

The teenager's gaze traveled from the mechanic to the little box, unable to decide which of them was shaking him so much. He just simply couldn't help but smile, contemplating at the man as if God himself was standing before him with the solution to his suffering.

It was a miracle.

“It's okay. Come here.” Tony's voice was unequaled sweetness, so foreign to his habit, as if he was afraid of hurting the boy just with an additional decibel. "Just come here..."

Peter did.

He practically collapsed into the Avenger's arms, swiftly entering in a succession of heartbreaking sobs and anguished apologies as he gripped him like a lifeline, thirsty for air, comfort, safety... His heart tore a little more if it was even imaginable when Tony's arms responded to the hug, seeming to share the same desperation, the same need to remain close to each other.

"I'm so, so, so sorry Mr. Stark... I, I didn't mean to, I didn't, I s-swear. Please believe me, please. I didn't want to hurt a-anyone." 

"I know," only a whisper. It wouldn't have been audible if Tony's lips hadn't been pressed right against his ear. "I know. Shh."

"P-please, Oh my God, please, I - thank you Mr. Stark, you’re saving me."

After a short silence, "I know."

Lost in a bouquet of emotions and sensations, Peter didn't pinpoint his Spider Sense which was warning him of impending danger. He also didn't notice Tony, who had a syringe in his hand

He only realized it too late, when the needle penetrated the flesh of his nape.

A gasp escaped him, as Tony's embrace tightened around him both to catch Peter when his legs gave way under his own weight, and to reassure him as darkness was already engulfing him.

“I'm sorry, bambino.”

**.**


End file.
